Daria MiniFics
by Roland 'Jim' Lowery
Summary: A collection of really really short stuff.
1. The 1,001 Deaths of Tom Sloane

The following short stories are based on characters created and/or copyrighted by Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis Lynn, and MTV. All other characters were created and copyrighted by Roland Lowery.

The author gives full permission to distribute this work freely, as long as no alterations are made and the exchange of monetary units is not involved. Any questions, comments, suggestions, or complaints should be sent to **esn1g(at)yahoo(dot)com**. Thank you.

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><p>"He can compress the most words into the smallest ideas of any man I ever met." -Abraham Lincoln<p>

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><p><strong><span>Daria Mini-Fics<span>**  
>by Roland 'Jim' Lowery<p>

Over the past few years, I've written a number of small ficlets, drabbles, or whatever you want to call them for the _Daria _fandom. Many of them were made for Iron Chefs (forum threads on the Paperpusher's Message Board in which a central idea is posited, then folks work on various stories based on and exploring that idea), but some few were simply spontaneous creations stemming from any number of sources.

For a long time, I've let these small little drops in the fan fic ocean languish where they lay, uncollected and most likely long forgotten. After much deliberation (like, at least ten seconds worth of deliberation I'm talking about here), I have decided to start collecting them and posting them here. And so without further ado, I give you the first two of those mini-fics!

While the first actual story I started writing for the _Daria_ fandom was _Suited for Crime_ and the first I actually finished was _ill_, these were the first two anythings of any size that I wrote for the fandom ever. I was taking part in a thread called "The 1,001 Deaths of Tom Sloane", in which people were killing off poor ol' Tom in so many horrible, ghastly ways.

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><p>Slowly, blearily, Tom opened his eyes and looked around himself. Seeing Jane and Daria sitting nearby, he immediately knew that he was on his death bed.<p>

The two women rose from their chairs and walked over to his side once they noticed he was awake. They stood over him silently, looking down at him like goddesses up on high. He returned their gazes . . . and he smiled.

"Just about that time, I suppose?" he asked.

With great warmth and tenderness, Jane and Daria took one of his hands each and returned his smile. Tears, obviously so recently dried, welled up again in the corners of their eyes.

"Now, none of that," he said, squeezing their hands reassuringly. "I won't have any crying over me. I've led a good life. A good _long_life. But everybody has to go at some point, and I think just over two thousand years of healthy living is quite enough."

Daria let out a small laugh, then sniffled a bit. "You could always use your mastery of all known scientific fields of study to keep going for two thousand more," she said. "You're the one who developed the process enabling humans to live for so long in the first place, after all."

"Defeating hundreds of diseases and saving trillions of lives over the centuries in the process," Jane added.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Tom said with a chuckle. "I don't know if I could get the permits for all the testing that would have to be done . . . "

"Says the man who got the laws cleared to allow our polygamous marriage," Jane said as she continued holding on to her husband with one hand while wrapping her other arm around Daria's shoulders. The two wives briefly kissed.

"And, not to mention, created the current government completely from scratch and almost single-handedly, bringing peace to the entire galaxy," Daria added afterward.

With a happy sigh, Tom almost started to reconsider his chosen course. But no, he'd been right the first time. He'd seen quite enough of the universe. Intelligence and beauty reigned the worlds hand in hand, harmony encircling and encompassing the whole human race, and it was in no small part his doing. He was no longer needed in this existence. It was time to move on, and he reminded the two women of that.

Quietly accepting the wisdom of their husband's words, Daria and Jane gave Tom one last hug and stepped back from the bed.

"We will always remember you, Tom," Daria said softly. "Especially what a wonderful, generous lover you are."

Without another word, Tom surrendered himself to death, allowing his spirit to shuffle off from the mortal coil. His body slowly dissolved in a glowing shower of light and gentle warmth, bathing Jane and Daria in healing rays of pure joy and wonder.

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><p>That's me, always have to be different. My second entry was more conventional to the thread, and was a crossover to boot!<p>

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><p>Tom cursed under his breath as he fiddled with the digital readout on the side of his gun and once again got nothing for his efforts but an alarm buzzer and an error message.<p>

_Isn't this always the way?_ he thought to himself. _Crazy lady several decks above bossing you around, crazy reprogrammed robots and disgusting biological horrors running around trying to kill you, weird-ass messages left behind by dead crew members creeping you the hell out, dimly lit and completely unlit corridors concealing multitudes of scary ass shit . . . and your gun has the constant indigence to break down every few minutes. I hate days like this._

He took a brief moment to scratch at the edge of the cybernetic goggle covering his left eye, then got back to work trying to program the correct repair sequence into the pistol. Another irritating buzz caused him to snarl in anger and toss the weapon down the dark hallway. He immediately realized how dangerous his action had been, but he still couldn't find the energy to feel regret over it. Everything that had happened since he'd awoken in a cryotube with several days worth of memory gone had simply worn him down to the mental nub.

Oozing alien eggs. The shipwide AI's rambling nonsense speeches. _Cryokinetic monkeys_. How was he supposed to cope with all of this nonsense, especially since every piece of equipment he managed to pick up had the audacity to work for only five minutes at a time!

A shuffling sound pulled him out of his frustrated reverie. It came from behind him and was accompanied by a strangely low-pitched litany of mumbled garbage . . .

"_We are we are we are,_" the odd voice repeated to itself as the shuffling came closer. "_What . . . has happened to me? A thousand eyes look . . . _"

A cold sweat broke out on Tom's forehead. Normally this wouldn't be a very dangerous situation, or at least it hadn't been for quite some time. But the pistol he'd just throw away had been the last of his working projectile weapons before it had broken and there was no time to drag out one of the others and fix it before the-

"_Is there another . . . ?_"

_Too late!_ Tom thought hurriedly. _They know I'm here! I gotta-_

"_They see you! Run! RUN!_"

Taking the voice's strangely given advice, Tom burst into a full run. His stumbled a little, however, his legs somewhat numbed from his earlier squatting position. To his horror, this gave the monstrous creature behind him just enough of an advantage . . . he wasn't going to be able to outrun this beast, and there was nothing he could do about it. He stopped, turned, and prepared to fight.

He reached down to unholster his one remaining weapon, but he wasn't in time. The solid weight of a giant wrench - much like the one he had been about to arm himself with - smashed directly across his face. He staggered back, feeling blood spray and teeth loosen from the impact.

Tom managed to just barely stay on his feet, but he fully expected to be taken down with the next blow. Sorrowful resignation filled his body for a split second, then vanished as he realized his assailant had not advanced again. It stood rooted, flailing its arms around, trying to reach behind its own back and failing.

"_Uuuuurrrrraaaaarrrrgh! KILL . . . MEEEEEE!_"

Having seen this before and knowing that the beast was going to be occupied for only a few seconds at most, Tom took a step backward, preparing to turn and resume his retreat. His foot bumped against something, causing him to look down in surprise. At first he thought the gun he had just kicked was the one he had thrown earlier, but now he saw that there were two pistols on the ground nearby, as well as half of a security man's corpse. The second gun belonged to the dead man and Tom could tell with only half a second's glance that it would actually fire!

He scooped up the working pistol just in time. He took careful aim at the monster's head as it gave up trying to rip the worm off its back and resumed its advance. A sharp report echoed through the claustrophobic hallway as blood, brains, skin, and skull sprayed across the walls, ceiling, and floor.

It hadn't been enough. Though half the creature's head was now gone and Tom could clearly see the disgusting biological nodes connecting the parasitic worm into the former human's central nervous system, there was still enough of the brain left for the annelid to continue pushing the host body forward.

Tom took aim and pulled the trigger again.

A cry of desperate anguish escaped his lips when nothing happened. He glanced at the readout floating in his field of vision to see that the gun had only had a single round in it.

"_Silence . . . the DISCORD!_"

There was a sharp pain in the top of Tom Sloane's skull as the hybrid's wrench slammed home a second time. He fell to the floor, his thoughts scattering like cockroaches fleeing a light source. The last thing he heard was a voice, a woman's voice, rattling down through the communication system wired directly into his head. At first he thought it was the doctor lady who had been guiding him since he'd woken up, but there was something different, something insane and unholy about this voice. It hissed in his inner ear . . .

"_P-p-p-pathetic, iiiiinnnnnnsssseeeeecccctttt . . . _"


	2. Tooth and Nail

These two mini-fics were written for an Iron Chef called "Tooth and Nail". Mack and Jodie had broken up, landing Mack on the free dating market with the idea being that the girls of Lawndale High would then be fighting tooth and nail over him. Of course, not everyone went that exact route . . .

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><p>Mack sighed deeply as he stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. It had been a long, hard, lonely few months since his breakup with Jodie. Ever since that day, it was like he was made of poison . . . poison concocted specifically to repel girls. He wasn't sure if it was a run of bad luck in the love department or what - though he secretly held the belief that Jodie was the real poison in the well, actively working to keep the rest of Lawndale's eligible bachelorettes away from him - but it was downright disheartening.<p>

"Oh, well," he finally said into the empty room. "At least there's one person who will always love me."

Without having to look, he reached over to his nightstand and picked up the lotion and tissues.

"Time for some hot Mack-on-Mack action . . . "

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><p>"Oh, baby . . . " Mack whispered softly as he beheld the awesome sight before him. Gently, ever so gently, he ran his fingertips along the side of the cool shaft.<p>

"You like that?" he breathed. "Yah, you like that, don'tcha? Feels real nice when I do that . . . "

Mack stroked it again, harder this time, feeling every curve, every swell as he moved his hand slowly from top to bottom.

"Don't worry, sweet thing, Mack Daddy's gonna treat you right . . . "

He reached back up to the top and grasped it firmly, giving it a little twist. Just a little one at first, followed by a firmer jerking motion.

"This is gonna be good . . . "

With the cap finally off of his soda, Mack lifted the drink and took a long pull at it, then set it back down with a loud sigh of satisfaction.

Quinn frowned deeply from the other side of the table, setting her own drink down with a sound of disgust.

"I don't think this is going to work out," she said. 


	3. DariaJane Robot Corpse

Daria/Jane shipping is very prevalent in the _Daria_ fandom, perhaps quite naturally. Also quite naturally, there is a group of folks who have gotten sick of it. A thread was started up to talk about burnout on the whole D/J thing, and one person mentioned that the only way to bring any vitality to such stories anymore would be to add something special, like a corpse. Or a robot. Or something.

And most naturally, I couldn't just let something like that slide.

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><p>Daria fell to her knees and put one hand on the half-torn robot corpse before her. Hydraulics and other fluids leaked from the skinless metal legs as she stroked black hair away from sightless blue eyes.<p>

"Oh, Jane," she said softly. "I know you were really just a cyborg from the future sent to destroy me . . . but I loved you!"

Jane suddenly coughed, her systems coming back online. Her one functional arm raised up, and she put a crumpled metal hand against Daria's face.

"And I love you," the robotic monstrosity droned in her digitized voice. "That is why I did not destroy you on that first day in self-esteem class four years ago. I will always lo- . . . "

Energy completely drained, Jane laid back and shut down for the final time.

The only sound that could be heard in the ruined remains of the Mall of the Millennium were the choked sobs of a broken heart.

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><p>Daria was so wrapped up in her misery that she didn't notice the melted puddle of silvery metal had begun to reconstitute itself nearby. Bit by bit, the small pieces of liquid metal flowed into each other, forming one large puddle.<p>

The center of this puddle slowly stretched upward, gradually taking humanoid form. Its surface fleshed out, taking on the texture of human skin, denim clothing, and brown hair pulled into twin braids falling on either side of its newly reconstructed face.

Daria's head snapped up when she heard the sound of debris crunching underfoot. She gasped in horror and started scrambling back, away from the monster that now stood over her.

"_I'm_ the one that loves you!" the Stacy simulacrum thundered. "_Me!_" She snarled at Jane's torn body, naked hatred twisting her features. "And now that this antiquated scrap heap is no more, nothing will ever keep us apart again . . . "

A scream erupted from Daria's chest.

The nightmare had started all over again, and this time there was no Jane-bot to protect her.

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><p>The second part came from people suddenly demanding moar, and then they demanded even more moar afterward. And so my full-fledged fic <em>Esteeminator: The Daria Morgendorffer Chronicles<em> was born. 


	4. Crossover 1

Made for the Crossovers thread. You'll never guess what's being crossed over with what! Or maybe you will. Anyway, I seriously considered actually fleshing this story out completely for a bit, but meh. Then the laziness kicked in.

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><p><strong>Thursday, April 1<br>2173 AD**

_The chain running from_ the ring in Bob's ear to the one in his nose slapped against the side of his face as he hit the ground. His right knee pounded against the sidewalk, but he hardly noticed the pain that shot up through his thigh. He launched himself forward and continued running in a blind panic.

Moments later, two female figures launched themselves over the wall from which Bob had just jumped, one in a green jacket and Stetson cowboy hat and the other in sunglasses and a bright red longcoat. They landed on their feet, the shock from the impact dispersed by the weave in their boots, and took off down the side of the street, hot on Bob's trail.

"_I . . . hate . . . this!_" Daria wheezed as they chased their quarry.

Jane grinned, showing a wide expanse of teeth. "Come on, Morgendorffer!" she said, sounding perfectly at ease as she jogged alongside her partner. "Get the lead out!"

Daria flashed an evil eye at the taller woman and puffed, "_Don't . . . hold back . . . on my account!_"

"Alrighty then!" Jane replied with a shrug. She took in a deep breath, expelled it, and then poured on the speed, leaving Daria behind at an astonishing rate. Bob quickly came into sight, the AR marker of the tracking device stuck to his shirt bobbing up and down on the surface of Jane's glasses.

When he glanced back and noticed how close the bounty hunter had gotten, Bob went into a cartoonish skid and made a 90 degree turn into a nearby alleyway. Jane pulled the same maneuver, though much more gracefully, but then pulled up to a complete stop when the tracking marker disappeared.

Her breathing was quickened, but silent as it passed through her nose. Suspicious of this sudden development, she pulled her dual pistols from their holsters and took a quick look at her surroundings.

The alley was short, leading into what appeared to be a small backlot. There was no other exit from the lot visible from where she was standing, but it hardly mattered since no possible exit - not even stepping inside the surrounding buildings - should have been able to block the tracer's signal.

Daria tromped into the alley, then bent over double and started to gasp for air.

"_That . . . was not . . . fun,_" she spat out around heaving breaths.

Jane motioned her to silence, then whispered, "You still have a bead on him?"

Daria swiveled her head around, then frowned deeply. "No," she whispered back, drawing her own pistol.

Carefully, the two bounty hunters edged along the wall, then sprang out around the corner, weapons forward.

The small lot was empty save for a rancid looking recycler sitting against one of the far walls. A back door to one of the buildings could be seen, but it had functional - if worn down - security pad next it, as well as an old fashioned padlock. Jane and Daria walked out into the middle of the lot and looked around as if Bob would reappear from thin air as surely as he had disappeared.

Jane glanced at Daria, who merely shrugged and pointed at the recycler. Though it was horrifically dangerous to do so, their bail jumper could have been just desperate enough to try hiding inside. They approached the machine carefully, noses wrinkling at the disgusting smell coming off of it in waves.

Daria put her hand under the lid, did a silent three-count, and shoved it open as Jane pointed both of her pistol inside.

"_Freeze!_" Jane shouted.

The recycler, like the lot itself, was empty. There was no criminal hunkered inside, just a few lonely boxes and the half-eaten remains of what looked like it might have been Chinese food once. Daria pushed the lid back in place and, just for the heck of it, hit the power switch. As the meager amount of garbage was churned and its constituent materials sorted into individually marked vacuum-sealed packages for easy transport to the nearest recycling station, Daria and Jane took stock of their situation.

"You lost him," Daria groused.

Jane looked at her bare wrist. "Is it time for the Blame Game already?" she asked. "Fancy that. So, now what?"

"Don't know," said Daria. "Feel like some Chinese food while we think about that?"

"As long as it smells better than the leftovers back here, sure."

Pistols holstered, they walked back through the alley and stopped short once they reached the sidewalk.

Everything around them had changed. Moments ago they had been in a middle-class neighborhood on the outer edges of Lawndale City. The buildings hadn't been the best constructed in the world, but at least they had been more presentable than the burnt out husks that Jane and Daria now faced. Broken machine parts littered the cracked street pavement, and the air smelled heavily of burnt petroleum and other less pleasant odors.

The sky, which had been the bright blue of a clear spring day, now roiled with heavy black clouds. Underneath it, the normal skyline of Lawndale City was drastically altered, lying lower and filled with a number of structures that were just as torn up as the local buildings.

Jane and Daria's mouths hung open in stupefied astonishment until the foul air invaded their lungs and caused them to start hacking and coughing.

"What the hell is going on here?" Jane asked once her lungs finally decided to stay where they were. "Did we miss a war or something?"

Daria wiped tears from her stinging eyes. "You'd think we would have _heard_ Armageddon happening, at least," she said. "But I think our problem might be even more severe." She pointed at the sign sitting above the building they had just been behind. "I'd swear that that said 'Good Time Chinese Restaurant' a minute ago."

Jane glared at the sign. It said "Chuck's Chili Dog Shack" in big block letters.

"So . . . what?" she asked. "Alternate universe?"

"I guess it wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've run into," Daria replied.

As if on cue, a blur of blue passed by, moving down the middle of the street at an incredible speed. It was accompanied by a strong wind that threatened to knock the two women off their feet. Before they could even come to terms with how amazingly fast it had been going, it rocketed back and stopped directly in front of them, coalescing into a small creature with blue quills protruding from all over its back and the top of its head.

The roughly humanoid creature stared at them thoughtfully with impossibly wide eyes, rubbing its chin with a white-gloved hand and tapping one red-sneakered foot on the ground. Suddenly it snapped its fingers and pointed at them.

"Humans!" it said, speaking English in a high, nasal voice. "Funny lookin' ones, tho'. You guys don't look _any_thing like ol' Buttnik and Snidely, anyway. Not that they _aren't_ funny lookin'."

Daria and Jane gaped at the little being as they tried to comprehend what it had just said. Daria's jaw worked a few times before she finally managed, "Who . . . what . . . _who the hell are you?_"

"Who, li'l ol' me?" it asked, pointing at itself. "I thought everybody had heard of me! Why, ladies and . . . well, just ladies . . . I'm the one and only, tried and true, slick and blue, accept-no-substitutes Fastest Thing Alive . . .

"_Sonic The Hedgehog!_" 


	5. Quinn and the Precious Puppies

**Quinn and the Precious Puppies of Preciousness**  
>by Roland 'Jim' Lowery<p><em>"Oh, you are the<em> cutest of the cutest!" Quinn squealed happily as she hugged the puppy and ruffled its fur. "I can't believe how unbelievably cute you are! Yes you is, yes you i-"

Suddenly, Quinn found herself in quite the conundrum. Just a few feet away was another puppy, just as cute if not cuter than the one she already held in her arms. She wanted very much to pick that puppy up and give him huggings and squeezings, too, but she had already reached her limit on how many puppies should could hug at one time!

What was she going to do?

An answer quickly formed in her mind. She scooted over to the second puppy and set the first down beside it. "Now, puppies," she said, "I can only hug one of you at a time, because you are both so big and fuzzy, so you are just going to have to be patient and share my hugs with each other. Can you do that?"

The puppies barked happily, then twirled around in little doggy circles to show that they understood. Quinn clapped excitedly and picked up the second puppy for the first round of extra special super hugs!

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><p>And thus I became the first of the Cheer Lords. <p>


	6. A New Word

Written for an Iron Chef titled "A New Word", in which a new word with a special meaning had to be created and used. I was the only one to actually take part for some reason, and of course I couldn't just stop from toying with the concept . . .

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><p>"Pal toss nadrim," Daria said as she leaned across the table and handed Jane a can of Ultra Cola.<p>

"Ran seelack mostro nadrim," Jane replied, taking the can and popping it open. The fizzy sound of escaping carbonation filled the Morgendorffer kitchen, then was quickly replaced by the slurping sounds of thirsty teenagers.

Daria pulled away from her own drink and smacked her lips in satisfaction. "Wabba nadrim calah mocktro, peerk!" she exclaimed. "Calah shren marko ran?"

Just then, Quinn ran into the room, looking flustered. "Moocho _cheersto_ ran terek?" she demanded. "Hanna moret! _Moret_ cheersto!"

Jane burst into uncontrollable laughter, but clapped a hand over her mouth when Daria favored her with a dirty look. "Merp," she said by way of apology.

"Calah cheersto estar penneck?" Daria asked, raising an eyebrow. "Cheersto mostro ebet."

"Iiiiiiiiiiiinal!" Quinn said, slapping her forehead. As she ran back out of the room, she called out over her shoulder, "Redra klieg merp!"

"Asada maruk cheersto," Daria deadpanned, causing Jane to nearly choke on her cola as she started laughing again.

Jake stood at the doorway to the living room, staring into the kitchen and feeling completely bewildered. Shaking his head in confusion, he turned around to see Helen walking up to him.

She noticed his expression and asked, "Is there something wrong, Jakey?"

"It's those darn teenagers," he said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "I swear, sometimes, it's like they're speaking a completely different language!" 


	7. How Your Dad And I Got Together

Written for an Iron Chef titled " . . . and that's how your dad and I got together." Anything went as long as the story ended with that sentence.

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><p>The sewn-together monstrosity, wrought by an unholy mixture of mad science and dark magicks, leaned down over the abducted child. Each side of its face held a smile, but the smile was non-symmetrical and disturbing, causing the small boy to cringe in fear.<p>

" . . . and that's how your dad and I got together," said the female side of the Ted/Stacy creature just before it began to feast on the child's soft flesh. 


	8. Mother's Day Cards

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Mother's Day Cards", with the simple premise of writing up Mother's Day cards given by the characters of _Daria_.

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><p><em>To Leslie and Grant:<em>

_Since Mother's Day and Father's Day are both "holidays" made up by greeding (ha, a pun!) card companies to sell more product, I have decided to take this time this year to celebrate a day that I made up myself, Progenitor's Day! As such, I would like to thank you for the life that you have given me and the lessons you have taught me, and the first step of that thanks is giving you this 100% recycled card that I made myself from discarded scraps of paper I found while volunteering to clean up the park. If you hold the card up to your nose, you should still be able to smell a little of the garbage produced by the filthy corporations of American "society". Please take a moment to appreciate how their polluting castoff has been reused to spread a message of peace and appreciation rather than greed and destruction._

_I respect you, my closest ancestors and personal teachers!_

_Ted_

_PS, Please note that my seeming emulation of a decadent holiday crafted by a corrupt civilization is entirely ironic in nature, part of an exploration of wit in all its forms on my part. After reading this, please recycle the card a second time into something more practical, such as a set of recipe cards or a coaster._

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><p><em>To Mom . . .<em>

_If I can rightly call you that. You're not my mother in the strictest sense, but I suppose in a way you are the one who gave birth to me, or at least enabled other people to do so. In either case, it's quite possible that I may not have existed at all if it weren't for you and the efforts you have made. I know that my labor was long and arduous, and that many sacrifices had to be made in order for the day of my birth to finally arrive, and I thank you for persevering through those dark times._

_I know that not everyone likes me, exactly, and that there are rumors flying around that you must not like me much either, considering the shape I am in. But don't worry. There are plenty of people out there who love me for what I am rather than what they had hoped me to be, or are at least happy that I am around at all. And for whatever faults you may have yourself or may have transferred on to me, I know that you did your best. In the end, that's all anyone can really ask._

_I love you, MTV, and I hope you have a wonderful Mother's Day._

_Your faithful daughter, Daria: The Complete Animated Series_


	9. Guys and Guys

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Guys and Guys". It's been a long held (and rather accurate) notion in the _Daria_ fandom that femmeslash is totally in and that guyslash hardly gets any attention whatsoever, so this IC was created to help bring some balance. It also turned into a slightly heated debate on why exactly the guy-on-guy thing isn't generally as prevalent. Anyway, point is, I wrote this for it, and it's actually a concept I hope to one day expand upon more seriously in my _friends (more than)_ series.

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><p>"Hey, what's with all the damn noise down there?" Jane yelled down the stairs. "I mean, the noise that isn't the usual barrage of anti-music?"<p>

"'Nother fight," Trent said as she stomped into the basement to stand next to him and Jesse. "The usual."

"And just what the hell are you tryin' ta say?" Nick snarled angrily at Max just a few feet away.

The bald drummer stood up and got in the bassist's face. "I'm not _tryin'_ to say anything!" he growled. "I'm _sayin'_ it! I don't think you truly appreciate the subtle intricacies of Grohl's musical genius, and I don't think you ever _will_ or even _can_, man!"

"There's nothin' subtle _about_ the guy! You just don't wanna admit that you're seein' stuff that ain't actually there!"

"Who do you think you're talkin' to, buddy?"

"You, ya moron!"

"Idiot!"

"_Jerk!_"

"**_ASS!_**"

Then, without warning, the two of them fell into each other's arms and kept on falling.

Jane rolled her eyes and sighed at the impromptu smooch-a-thon taking place on the basement floor.

"Yup," she said as she stomped back up the stairs, "the usual." 


	10. Daria and Military School

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Daria and Military School". Pretty simple, instead of a regular school Daria ends up attending a military school.

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><p>Once the rank and file were settled into their chairs, Lieutenant Colonel Anthony DeMartino snapped the heels of his shoes smartly to call attention to the front. All noise ceased immediately as every eye turned forward. Pleased with the speed of compliance with his nonverbal order, DeMartino smiled slightly and began to speak in calm, even tones.<p>

"Class, we have a new cadet joining us today," he said. "Please welcome Third Class Cadet Morgendorffer. ON YOUR **FEET**, SOLDIER!"

Daria jerked in her seat, unprepared for the sudden change in tone, then grudgingly stood up and saluted the teacher somewhat briskly. She wasn't sure how it was possible, but the teacher's smile suddenly became grim and frosty without having to physically change his expression one iota. A chill ran down her back at the impression.

"Well, cadet," he said, "as long as you're standing . . . Last week, we began a unit on westward expansion. Perhaps you feel it's unfair to be asked a question on your first day of class?"

A trickle of sweat began to wend its way across Daria's left temple, leaving a cold trail behind it. Her normal reaction in such situations would be to react with hostility, make some sort of sarcastic barb, or simply let the other party know of her complete disinterest through her body language, but the cold that continued to emanate off of DeMartino along with the way that one of his eyes seemed to be opening just a fraction wider than its counterpart kept her silent. Until, that is, she realized that the lieutenant colonel was waiting for an answer.

"No, sir," she said carefully. "I would not feel treated unfairly under those circumstances."

The smile grew a centimeter and seemed to gain some genuine warmth to it. "Cadet Morgendorffer, can you concisely and unemotionally sum up for us the doctrine of Manifest Destiny?"

Without hesitation, Daria said, "Manifest Destiny was a slogan popular in the 1840's. It was used by people who claimed it was God's will for the US to expand all the way to the Pacific Ocean."

She tried to pull her teeth and lips shut after that, but the urge was simply too powerful. "These people did not include many Mexicans," she added after the briefest of pauses.

Rather than incited, LTC DeMartino actually seemed to be somewhat amused by the addendum. "Very good, cadet," he said with a nod. "You transferred in from . . . Highland public school in Texas, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," she said, unable to keep the derision from her voice.

"Hmm. As much faith as I have in our governmental system and all that it does for the citizenry of these great states, I find it difficult to believe that a public education of the caliber you surely enjoyed would have adequately prepared you to answer that question correctly, let alone so quickly. Still. Very good.

"Now, class," the teacher continued, nodding permission for Daria to be seated. "Who can tell me which war Manifest Destiny was used to justify? Cadet Thompson? How about you?"

"The Vietnam War, sir!" Thompson belted out immediately.

DeMartino's eye twitched ever so slightly. "That came a little later, cadet," he said, his voice turning low and dangerous. "Over a hundred years later, in fact. A lot of good men died in that conflict. I BELIEVE WE OWE IT TO THEM TO AT LEAST GET THE **CENTURY** RIGHT!"

Cadet Thompson leaned back from the sudden onslaught and worked his jaw until something else came out. "Uh . . . Operation Watergate?" he mumbled.

LTC DeMartino stared hard at the unfortunate cadet for what felt like minutes but could only have been a few seconds. Thompson tried to shrink down into his uniform, then let out a soft sigh of relief as the teacher turned to the seat next to his.

"Cadet Taylor," DeMartino said icily, "can _you_ tell me which war we fought against the Mexicans over Manifest Destiny?"

The blonde girl he was speaking to idly tugged at a short lock of hair on the side of her head, chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then shook her head sadly. "No, sir," she said quietly.

"_Try_," DeMartino fairly growled.

"Uh . . . the Viet _Cong_ War?" she ventured.

Without a single change of expression, DeMartino straightened up and took in a deep breath of air through his nose before barking at the class, "EITHER SOMEONE GIVES ME THE ANSWER, OR I GIVE ALL OF YOU LATRINE AND MESS DUTY FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS! I WANT A VOLUNTEER WITH THE ANSWER! **NOW!**"

Daria's eyes darted around the room, but either everyone who knew the answer had been stunned into silence by the outburst, or she really was the only one. Gritting her teeth and mentally cursing her situation, she slowly raised her hand.

"STOP SHOWING OFF, CADET MORGENDORFFER! DROP AND GIVE ME TEN!"

Lowering her hand and sighing to herself, Daria dropped to the floor and began her set of assigned push-ups. It was going to be a long three years until graduation. 


	11. Real Esteem

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Real Esteem". The idea was that someone other than O'Neill teaches the self-esteem class, and it's the thread in which I wrote my full ficlet _Is It Self-Esteem Yet?_ with Daria as the replacement. That wasn't the only one I wrote, however. And be warned . . . thar be crossovers here. Many, many crossovers.

* * *

><p>Daria squinted at the two young men standing at the front of the class, then immediately stopped. Their blurred image reminded her too much of the blonde and brunette boys that she had just recently left behind, something that she neither needed nor wanted to be reminded of. Instead, she tried to concentrate on what they were saying.<p>

"Like, _esteem!_"

"Like, _a teen!_"

"They _totally_ don't rhyme, do they?" the blonde guy said, shaking his head with melodramatic sadness. "It's like, they _almost_ do, but then they _don't_, right? And that's not really cool."

"Right!" his partner agreed, a goofy grin plastered across his face. "But we're here to totally fix that! We're gonna make all you little dudes and dudettes totally rhyme!"

"Right, but first, you guys have just gotta realize one important thing, okay?" The blonde pointed at each of the students in turn as he said, "Deep down you are all _totally righteous_. I mean right now, you're a little lame and kinda heinous - oh, dude, especially you - but what you gotta learn is, all you gotta do is stick one little 'non-' on there, and suddenly you're totally excellent and most totally _non-heinous!_"

"In fact, you might even try sticking a few more on there and become non-non-non-non-non-no-"

The blonde swatted his compatriot lightly. "Dude," he tried to whisper but failed miserably as the entire class could hear him. "That's, like, _way_ advanced for these guys. One step at a time, dude!"

A look of sad confusion stole over the brunette's face, but he quickly recovered and nodded, goofy grin back in place as if it had never left. "Right!" he said, then turned back to the class. "So anyway, today, the first thing we're gonna teach you is how to be excellent to each other!"

"And how to _party on, dudes!_"

And then they played air guitar.

* * *

><p>"YOU ARE AN IN-FER-IOR SPE-CIES! THIS IS WHY YOU HAVE LOW SELF-E-STEEM! YOU SHOULD BE MORE LIKE THE DA-LEKS! WE ARE SU-PER-IOR! WE ARE SU-<strong>PREME!<strong>"

"The school psychologist tells me that all of you have self-esteem problems," the man in the multi-colored coat said. "Well _tish-tosh!_ Low self-esteem merely means you haven't yet figured out just how incredibly brilliant _you_ are and how gobsmacking idiotic everyone else in the universe is!"

"Y'know, I kinda liked the celery guy we had last week better," Jane groused.

"YoUr ReLiAnCe On SeLf-EsTeEm MaKeS yOu WeAk. ThE dEsIrE fOr ThE fAlSe CoNfIdEnCe It PrOvIdEs WiLl Be ReMoVeD. yOu WiLl Be UpGRADeD!"

Daria sat down and frowned as she looked to the front of the classroom.

"Yah, they seem a little stiff at first," the girl behind her said of the angelic statues, "but stop concentrating on your self-esteem for even a second, and they're on you like _that_."

* * *

><p>"Hmm. It's been fifteen minutes, and still no sign of Mr. O'Neill," Jane said as she tossed the wadded paper ball over to Daria.<p>

Daria caught the ball and held on to it, rolling it around in her hand a few times before tossing it back. "How much longer do you think we should wait before we give up and leave?" she asked.

"Fifteen minutes ago, preferably, but-"

The sound of a heavy engine rumbling up outside followed by a massive blast from an air horn caused Jane to jump in surprise and drop the paper ball. She, Daria, and the rest of the self-esteem class got up from their chairs and ran to the window to see a massive big rig truck parked just outside, its engine idling and its hull painted in a red and blue flame motif.

As they stared and tried to figure out what the truck was doing at the school, its surface suddenly fragmented and began to shift around. Amongst various noises of clanking, clacking, clunking, and wooshing was a short series of strange, almost alien sounds that came from its core.

The truck stood up as the last few pieces slid into place, showing that it had turned into an enormous robot. It then crouched down on one knee, peered into the classroom, and spoke in a deep, sonorous voice that rattled the windows.

"SELF-ESTEEM STUDENTS . . . **ROLL OUT!**" 


	12. Real Esteem Revisited

Over in a crossovers thread, I decided to expand on an idea I did for the "Real Esteem" Iron Chef.

* * *

><p>"Oh! Eh-heh, hello there, children! Now, I have been told you have low, er, expectations for yourselves. Yes, yes, low self-esteem, of course. Now, I don't know if we should settle for such drastic dribble, do you? No, no, I thought not. So let's, er, let's begin, shall we?"<p>

"Oh dear. Well, I suppose we _should_ get started, then, hadn't we? So much to do, so little time, tisn't a bit of time to waste, hmm? But you see, self-esteem . . . oh, my giddy aunt, there just _isn't_ enough time to explain, even for me! Now, when I say 'have confidence in yourself', have confidence in yourself . . . _have confidence in yourself!_"

"Here now, slow down a bit there. It's all very elementary, I assure you. Self-esteem is often a result of possessing ability, yet using those abilities to their fullest is often dependent upon having confidence in their use. Thus, logically, the best road to finding self-esteem is to find what you are good at and doing it well, yes? Yes, I thought so. I'm rather handy at reversing polarities, myself."

"What? You still don't have self-esteem yet? Just what have those other bunglers been teaching you, anyway? Well, no matter, no matter. I think you'll find that there is no one else who has more esteem in me than me, thus making me eminently qualified to teach this subject. And every other subject, of course."

"Ah. Yes. Where did we leave off, children? Self-esteem, eh? Hmm. Yes. Well, this should all be very simple, I think. Just continue striving, keep a brave heart, and everything else should fall into place. There now. Don't you feel better?"

"Self-esteem? _Self-esteem?_ My dear girl, of _course_ I could teach you everything I know about self-esteem, but I rather doubt that your sadly underdeveloped brain would be able to hold it all! Self-esteem, _honestly_."

"Yes! Of course! Honesty! Once you've learned to fake self-esteem, everything else is easy, but there _is_ so much more to it than that! To the universe as well, once you stop to think on it! There's self-respect! Self-discipline! Self-indulgence! Self-centrism! Self-rising! Self-sealing! _Self-inflating!_ There is a great deal left for you to learn about the universe, I assure you, and a great deal left to see."

"Feeling good about one's self? Well that's simple. True comfort with one's self comes from a sturdy pair of comfortable shoes."

"Oh, sure, you expect to just walk right in and be handed the secrets to self-esteem, do you? Hmm? Just as I thought, another band of _stupid monkeys_, thinking they deserve everything to be handed right to them. Well let me tell you, self-esteem is hard work. Not as hard if you're as fantastic as I am, of course, but we all have to start somewhere."

"There we go, 'ey 'ey? All seated comfortably? Then let's begin! Self-esteem, self-esteem, broom broom da doom doom doom . . . _right!_ So! Self-esteem, a teen, a Slitheen in some steam. Hah! That almost all rhymed, didn't it? Bit clever, that."

"Yes! Well! Self-esteem class is almost over and I'm afraid that you've all failed BUT we can of course correct this oversight if I just write down the exact calculation on the board describing the unified theory of esteem for you OR that's what I would do if there was such a thing. But there isn't. Made it up. My mistake. But don't worry, everything will be fine, and I'll be handing out bowties as you all leave at the end of the class, which when worn will give everyone _else_ enough esteem in you to last a lifetime, because as we all know . . . bowties are cool." 


	13. ATTACK WARNING RED

Written for an Iron Chef titled "ATTACK WARNING RED". All the stories had to start off with _The school intercom screeched to life. "Attention: **We are under attack**."_

* * *

><p>" . . . BY ADORABLE PUPPIES!"<p>

Quinn squealed with delight and was the first to find and cuddle every single puppy, who proceeded to attack her with puppy licks and ticklish tails wagging back and forth with gleeful gleefulness.

* * *

><p>The school intercom screeched to life.<p>

"Attention: _We are under attack._"

The usual simpering expression disappeared from Mr. O'Neill's face, leaving him looking like a completely different man. He put the papers he had been just about to hand out down on his desk, looked down sadly, and heaved a sigh.

"Children," he said in a rich, baritone voice, "I am sorry it finally had to come to this. '_Lawndale is a shining point of light for the future_'."

The strange phrase reverberated in Jane's head, and it felt as if several blocked off areas of her mind had opened up and flooded the rest of her with knowledge and skill she had previously been unaware she had possessed.

Without hesitation, she and the rest of the students in the room stood up from their desks, formed orderly lines, and marched out of the classroom, accepting the futuristic looking weapons that O'Neill passed out as they went.

Daria, the only one still left in her seat, looked around at the empty classroom in confusion.

"What the hell just happened?" 


	14. The Terror of Metalmouth

Written for an Iron Chef titled "The Terror of Metalmouth". Slasher movie style stories involving the infamous Metalmouth. Due to the prompting of other folks, I ended up taking the idea and crossing it over with two of my own fics. Maybe someday I'll actually write out the full thing . . .

* * *

><p>Metalmouth chuckled softly to himself as he watched the two frightened teenagers flee from the woods. He hadn't been able to catch them, unfortunately, but he often enjoyed scaring the hell out of them just as much as he enjoyed tearing the flesh from their bones with his vicious teeth.<p>

And besides, there were always new victims coming his way. It didn't seem to matter how many he killed or frightened off, there was always a new batch of idiots of all ages ready to try and prove his existence or non-existence. He figured he would get another chance to gnaw on a human corpse or two within a week or so.

In the meantime, he made his way back to his cave. Morning was coming already, and so it was time for the blessed release of sleep. He checked a few of his traps along the way to find that a single rabbit had been caught within a metal pincher that closely resembled his own steel grill. He gave the helpless animal a shark's-tooth grin before snapping its neck and pulling its leg from between the trap's teeth.

Back at his home, a cave set deep in the woods where no one ever went, Metalmouth rubbed his full belly in contentment. Why he had ever thought cooked food was the way to go, he couldn't rightly understand, and as he idly pondered the situation, he felt his eyes slowly begin to droop.

If he had taken the time to think about it, this would have seemed a bit odd. Normally it took a frustrating amount of time for him to get to sleep, since the piercing strains of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" that constantly quivered through his metal teeth and drove him mad always kept him twisting and turning for hours before slumber overtook him. But this morning, the wailing tone of Cyndi Lauper's voice seemed almost . . . _soothing_.

Just before he drifted off into dreams of rending the skin of teenagers and 80's pop bands, Metalmouth reached over to the rock where he kept his precious few personal possessions, picked up the paintball mask sitting there, and slipped it on. His eyes closed completely and darkness overtook him moments later.

With a vigor unusual for a man who had just fallen asleep, Metalmouth stood up and stretched out his muscles. He looked down at his hands, curling the fingers into claws, then reached up and grabbed his mask at the top and bottom. With virtually no effort whatsoever, he snapped off the lower half of the mask.

A malicious grin spread across his face as the first rays of morning light filtered in through the mouth of the cave to reflect on his tinted goggle eyes and his glistening metal fangs. Neither killer had ever taken anyone out during the day before.

It sounded . . . _fun_.

* * *

><p>I do not dream.<p>

Or, to be more precise, I do not remember my dreams, if I do in fact dream. It is a minor curiosity to me, and as such I have looked into it from time to time. There are others, it seems, who are much the same, but even they will remember a dream every once in a while. I remember none at all, and the very concept of dreaming seems strange and alien to me.

I have formulated several different hypotheses concerning this state of affairs. Perhaps my brain truly is set up differently from those of other people, and part of that is that I do not require dreams as part of my natural sleep cycle. Perhaps I truly am part of that segment of humanity that only remembers their dreams rarely, and my one or two remembered dreams have simply not yet made their appearance.

The hypothesis that I find most probable, however, is that I do not need to remember my dreams because my waking life is already strange, abnormal, and bordering on the surreal as it is. This is only to be expected, I am sure, when one is a serial killer who only kills other killers.

How appropriate it is, then, that the dream I had last night was about a killer other than myself.

Yes, a dream, and I am just as surprised as anyone might be, if they knew of my true nature. And yet it did not feel like I have been told dreams feel like. Description of the phenomenon eludes even my considerable vocabulary, and because of this, I am unsure of which hypothesis I hold that it supports. Indeed, I question whether or not it was in fact a dream at all.

The killer was a tall man, thin but wiry, much like myself. His muscles, where I could see them through the holes in his ragged clothing, were knotted in a way that belied their size, showing the barely restrained strength that they contained. His hair was an unruly shock of grey with thin streaks of black still running through it, and his face . . .

This is where the surreality typical of dreams seems to take over. His face contained the normal implements - ears, nose, eyebrows, and such - but two of the features were strange, distended from the usual form. The eyes appeared to be flat and glassy, almost like the lenses of a pair of goggles. And underneath them, his mouth was a wide slash of jagged metal, stained with blood.

I cannot recall the exact actions taken by myself or this man during the dream, but I do remember hearing the faint strains of a song that ran through the background of the entire experience. I am not familiar with many songs overall and so did not recognize it or the artist, but the lyrics revolved around girls and how they wanted to have fun.

Lost in my own thoughts, it takes me a few moments to realize that Jennifer has settled down beside me on the commons bench. We make the standard pleasantries, then she begins to tell me of the latest in murdering news.

I had already heard of the nearly-legendary and almost-certainly-mythical killer known as Metalmouth, a once-human monster that hunts teenagers in the forest just outside of Lawndale proper, but after only a short bit of research, thinking that he might be worth hunting down for my own nighttime activities, I had quickly given up upon learning that all the evidence concerning him pointed toward it simply being an urban legend.

Jennifer's news forces me to reconsider my initial assumptions, however, as she tells me that two teenagers were found dead in their rooms, their bodies covered in evenly spaced bite marks. Unusual for those deaths sometimes attributed to Metalmouth, the murders had taken place in the afternoon and outside the forest, within Lawndale itself.

Still, it may not be the urban legend in the flesh. I highly doubt that it is, and it seems likely that it is simply a copycat killer getting off on making people think he might be Metalmouth, taking his rampage out of the woods. It hardly matters. All I know is that the darkness is rising within me, and I can feel the leading edge of the hunger start to sink its own steely fangs into my heart.

Whoever this new killer is, I will find him. And when I do, he will wish he was still just a myth. 


	15. Daria in a runaway 2008 Camry

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Daria in a runaway 2008 Camry", which is about pretty much what it sounds like it would be about.

* * *

><p>Tears streamed down Daria's face as she tried turning the keys in the ignition one last time.<p>

Her heart caught in her throat as the low rumble of the engine kicking over slowly thrummed from the front of the car. She held the key forward and prayed with everything she had to every deity she could think of as the sound repeated and quickened until the entire car thundered to life.

Laughing maniacally at her good fortune, Daria didn't waste a second as she threw the car into drive and slammed her foot down on the accelerator. The vehicle trundled forward, picking up speed as she pulled out of the mechanic's yard and onto the dirt road. From there she careened onto the blacktop without bothering to even slow down at the stop sign.

Still simultaneously laughing and crying, she reached down to turn the air conditioner up to full, then moved her hand over to stroke the hair of her young son, who was still unconscious in the passenger seat.

"It'll be okay, baby," she murmured to his still form. "We're safe now. It's all gonna be alright."

She looked up just in time to notice the curve in the road ahead of her. The tires squealed at her as she pulled the wheel hard to the right, but she managed to keep the car on the road without flipping it over. Realizing that her escape wouldn't mean anything if she wrecked, potentially killing herself and her son, she put her foot down on the brake to gently slow the car down.

The pedal sank all the way to the floorboard without any resistance, and the vehicle continued down the fence-lined road just as fast as before. As she looked through the windshield to see an SUV right in front of her and a massive truck just about to pass by in the opposite direction, blocking the path ahead of her completely, she felt a pit growing in her stomach. She couldn't understand how he had done it, but she knew what had happened.

_Cujo had cut the damn brakeline._


	16. Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai

_Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai_ is a game where people take turns telling horror stories. A hundred candles are lit, and after every story the storyteller blows out one of the candles. This continues until all of the candles are snuffed out. A thread was set up on the PPMB with that in mind, having the characters of _Daria_ take turns telling scary stories. Having already firmly established a reputation as a writer of the scary, someone mentioned me in a short list of people who's horror should be included. I couldn't just let that challenge sit unanswered!

* * *

><p>Tiffany stepped forward, the light of the candles playing oddly in her almond-shaped eyes. Her typically blank stare was unusually intense as she concentrated. She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, then she began to speak . . .<p>

The first sound you hear is your own breathing, soft and shallow.

The first thing you feel is a strange weariness in your body, as if your limbs, torso, and head have been dipped in molasses. As consciousness and physical sensation begin to return, you then feel the rough texture of the rope binding you at the wrists and ankles.

You see only blackness, your eyes blinded by a cloth covering.

Your breathing remains shallow, but is no longer soft. It is quickening as panic grips your heart and freezes your intestines. Your every breath has become the sound of fear, the sound of an animal trapped in a cage it cannot even fully sense.

The smell of something stale reaches your nose. You can taste dirt on the air, and it tastes awful.

You hear your own voice, calling out into the darkness that surrounds you. It drifts out and then back in, the echoes bouncing oddly. There are many walls around you, as if there is a massive labyrinth with you in the very center.

You feel the ropes burn into your skin as you struggle against them. You feel your teeth grind against one another as you strain. You feel a tickling itch as sweat begins to trickle down your temple and into the lobe of your ear.

The sound of your shouts and screams and pleas for mercy and release become hoarse and eventually cease altogether. All that is left are the heaving breaths of the exhausted and the pitiful mewling cries of the resigned.

But your fate is still yet to come.

The next thing you feel is a hand enclosed in soft velvet as it is placed on your naked flank. It smoothly traces its way along your ribs, across your chest, and over your collar to lay softly upon your throat.

Your tremulous voice queries the identity of the hand's owner, but no answer is forthcoming. Silence is the newcomer's companion. There is not even the sound of a second pair of lungs working the stale air of the sprawling dungeon in and out, in and out.

The hand lingers on your throat gently, almost lovingly, and then moves reluctantly away.

You hear sharpness. It seems almost impossible, but you recognize the sound all the same. You smell the fear in your own sweat. You taste the heady flavor of death on the air. You see the edge of the oblivion that awaits you. You feel the sharp edge that slices its way through your flesh again and again, one terrible inch at a time.

That last sound you hear is that of your own blood dripping slowly to the stone floor below.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Tiffany stood perfectly still for several moments before seeming to come out of a trance. Without another word, she leaned over one of the flickering candles and blew out the flame before returning to her seat. 


	17. What would Lawndale be like if

Written for an Iron Chef titled "What would Lawndale be like if . . . " in which a single historical event was to be changed and the consequences to Lawndale explored. Most people were quite naturally going for horribly pessimistic stuff like the Nazis winning. Me, I always gotta buck the trend.

* * *

><p>"Aaaaaaah! Just smell that fresh air!" Jake said as he adjusted the fields to let a whisper of breeze into the car. "Now, girls, I just want you to know your mother and I realize it's not easy moving to a whole new town-"<p>

"Duh-_ad!_" Quinn interrupted, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. "I'm trying to listen to this NPR 'cast!"

Jake blinked rapidly, then listened to the soothing tones of the the DJ for a few moments. "Oh! Sorry," he continued in a quieter voice. "The point is, the first day of school is bound to be difficult, and I just want to make sure that you two will look out for each other."

"Of course, Dad," Daria said from the back seat. "We're all in this together."

"Yah, like, totally no problem," Quinn chimed in distantly but sincerely, one ear still turned to the 'cast. "Family, education, and the environment are all extremely important, and you know we'll do our best to further each of them today as, like, a team."

"Now that's what I like to hear!" he cheered. "Now get out there and have a gosh-darn-terrific day, kids!"

"Sure thing, Dad!" the girls said in unison as they stepped out of the car and waved as it slid away on its hoverplates. After the gravcar angled up and took off into the clear blue smog-free sky, they turned and made their way up the steps of Lawndale High School to where two cheerful brunettes greeted them.

"Hi!" the one on the left chirped, her dual braids bouncing as she nearly vibrated with excitement. "Welcome to our school! What are your names?"

"I'm Quinn Morgendorffer, and this is my sister Daria!"

"Cool names!" The other girl smiled and handed them a small sealed sack each from the pile on the table next to her. "Please accept these gift bags on behalf of Lawndale High. Inside you will find pamphlets on how you can make the world a better place through recycling, a sign-up sheet for school-sponsored health insurance, and a selection of condoms for your discrete use!"

Daria and Quinn accepted the bags gratefully and stepped inside to find that a small group of students had congregated around a flag just a little way down the hall. Clasping hands, they hurried forward to join the group as they reverently intoned the Affirmation Pledge.

"_I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United Internet of America, and to the socialism for which it stands, one nation under Gore, unpolluted, with freedom and prosperity for all . . . _" 


	18. 10 Things I Hate About You

Written for an Iron Chef titled "10 Things I Hate About You". Quinn gets grounded from dating until Daria starts dating. I wasn't going to participate in this one originally, but then someone brought up a neat little idea that I just couldn't resist running with . . .

* * *

><p>Quinn looked up from her bowl of all-natural fat-free vitamin-rich cereal to see Daria slump listlessly into the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, then close it without taking anything out. The normally dour-looking girl was even more dour-looking than normal as she stared at some point just beyond the edge of the universe.<p>

"Bad day?" Quinn asked, somehow making it sound pleasantly conversational and heartlessly indifferent at the same time.

"Yah," Daria intoned dully. "You could say that."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Absolutely not."

Daria's eyes slid to the side and then back.

"Fine," she amended, sitting down across the table from her sister. "You've dragged it out of me. I . . . I kissed Tom. And then I told Jane about it today. So now she hates me and probably hates Tom and they're gonna break up and I _liked_ kissing Tom so I think I wanna see where that might go but if I do it'll ruin things between me and Jane even more than it already has and I'm not sure what to do about any of this and it's got me just inches away from shutting down completely."

"Mm-hm, mm-hm," Quinn hummed thoughtfully as she chewed slowly on a mouthful of skim milk-doused flakes. "Sounds rough," she said after swallowing. "But on the up-side, my plan finally worked."

Bafflement crossed Daria's features but was quickly replaced by suspicion as Quinn's words sank in a little further. "_What_ plan?" she asked dangerously.

Quinn just waved off her sister's concern. "Oh, nothing. Just the whole plan I set up to gradually eat away at Jane and Tom's relationship while simultaneously thrusting you and him together so subtly that none of you noticed anything was going on until it was far too late. The end result being, of course, that you start dating so that whole 'you're grounded from dating until Daria starts dating' thing Mom sprung on me would finally go away."

Daria sat speechless for several moments, staring slack-jawed at her younger sister. Did she . . . ? Could she have . . . ?

"No," Daria decided out loud. "This isn't funny, Quinn. I'm being serious."

Quinn looked up and stared Daria right in the eye. "So am I," she said, stone cold.

Then, as Daria watched, a horrible transformation came over Quinn's face. Her eyebrows slowly drew down and in toward the middle, and the corners of her mouth turned upward in a wide smile. Her lips parted as the smile became a wicked grin, her perfectly white teeth gleaming in the kitchen light. A soft chuckle sounded deep in her throat, and her teeth parted as it became a laugh. The laugh went higher and higher in pitch until she was throwing her head back in sadistic glee, curling her fingers in the air with delight at the misery she had wrought.

Daria - completely unnerved by the display and no longer doubting the veracity of her sister's claim - bolted up from the chair and ran out of the room, tears streaming down her face and her entire body trembling with loathing, fear, and self-pity.

Once Daria was gone, Quinn settled back down into her previous posture, then nonchalantly scooped up another spoonful of cereal and swallowed it down.

"Hmn," she grunted softly to herself after a bit of thought. "Kinda wish I _had_ done all that stuff now. That woulda been _epic_." 


	19. Dieselpunk Daria

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Dieselpunk Daria". Dieselpunk is one of the members of the science-fiction "punk" family in which fantastic and/or anachronistic technology is introduced into a certain era of time. In this case, that era is circa World War II. I'm thinking I'd actually like to expand on this story someday.

* * *

><p><em>5 . . .<em>

_4 . . ._

_3 . . ._

_2 . . ._

_1 . . ._

_RELEASE!_

A feeling of exultant joy raced through her chest as she propelled herself out into the sky. Brilliant blue marbled with streaks of white filled every degree of her view, and her aural world became naught but the sound of rumbling wind as she cut through the air.

She wanted to live in that world forever, a world of falling through infinite sky, but the pressures of reality had to be let back in eventually. Putting her arms and legs out, she created as wide a profile as she could to increase wind resistance and slow herself down as much as possible. Looking to her left and her right, she could see the rest of her team doing the same.

Ted "The Kid" DeWitt-Clinton. Engineer. Newest member on the team and performing only his second drop ever, but his face held no trace of fear. Instead, he was grinning widely, and she could just make out his excitement-widened eyes under the prescription lenses of his goggles. Even with the extenuating circumstances of the wind pushing his features back, she could also see that his look of excitement had a slightly unhinged edge to it. The Kid was very intense. Very very intense. It would be something to watch for at their destination.

Kevin "Brick" Thompson. Muscle. He was lit up, too, but for entirely different reasons. He was simply too dumb to be afraid. Unfortunately his lack of intelligence didn't keep him from opening his mouth, but thankfully falling through wind too loud to hear over did. As usual, he was pretending he was swimming in the air, which wasn't funny the first time, or the thirty times since. If he wasn't so damn good at cracking skulls, she would have let him go a long time ago.

Stacy "Wings" Rowe. Pilot. Got her nickname from safely landing a four engine plane with only one engine left. Nerves of steel. Back of scars. Didn't talk much. Didn't have to. The most anyone had ever gotten out of her was that she didn't do girls anymore. Crowd like this, you don't ask anything else after that.

Charles "Upchuck" Ruttheimer III. Infiltration. He noticed her looking at him and gave her a thumbs-up, which she returned. And then immediately regretted doing so when a sleazy smile cracked his lips open like the neatest, straightest fault line you ever saw. He was the team's face, their con man, the one with the connections who could charm anyone and everyone except the other members of the team, who all saw him for the slime he really was underneath.

And finally, Michael "Mack" Mackenzie. Gunman. If it took bullets and had a trigger, he could fire it. He had been with her the longest and enjoyed the highly vaunted position of being her second-in-command. Everything about his pose in the air showed that he hadn't gained that rank simply through seniority, however. He looked like a raptor floating through the breeze, every part of him concentrating on the task ahead, every fiber of his being poised to _strike_.

And the moment to strike was upon them. Their target appeared out of the clouds, just as their employers had promised it would, and with a simple clapping of their arms to their sides and activation of the release studs, they were all cutting through the air on two wings and a prayer each.

The mini-gliders worked perfectly and took them straight up to the wing of the massive plane to land one by one. The Kid was the first to land by design, so he could pull out his pneumatic driver and bolt an anchor point into the wing's thick hide. He then attached a length of hemp rope from his belt to the point and helped steady the others as they touched down.

As soon as she was down, she grabbed the shoulder of the Kid's coveralls and put her mouth almost right up against his ear.

"_The engine?_" she yelled, and he nodded. "_Thirty minutes! No more! No less! Nothing fancy!_"

But already he wasn't listening. Gloved hands twitched at the thought of getting inside the bloated casing several yards away from them, so she let him go scampering across to get to work.

With a combination of finesse and brute strength, Upchuck and Brick had already gotten the door open by the time had reached them. They all stepped inside and cut their anchor ropes one by one. They'd only needed them to get to the door itself without falling off the wing. They wouldn't need them when they left. At that point, falling off the wing would all be part of the plan.

Wings and Brick were directed toward the front to get to know the flight crew. Upchuck pulled off his coveralls to reveal an expensive suit underneath, then left to schmooze with the upper crust snobs situated in the plane's underbelly, which had been converted into a massive ballroom area for their amusement. Mack, impeccably clad as a server under his work suit, went with him to keep him out of trouble.

And that left her to find the package. She peeled away her own coveralls to reveal a dark red bomber jacket, a black button-up shirt, and the smallest pair of men's blue jeans she could find, the cuffs sitting loosely over a pair of heavy boots. Unlike the others, who were supposed to fit in at least for the time being, she was theoretically supposed to remain unseen. Her regular clothing sufficed.

The corridors of the plane reminded her strongly of those in an office building. And in a way, she supposed that was exactly what it was supposed to be. Over the course of her career as a freelance areo-agent - colloquially known as "sky pirate", a term she found equally romantic and detestable - she had been on five such airborne fortresses, and every time she found the evident opulence to be sickening.

_These people are laughing it up and drinking champagne,_ she thought derisively, _while there's a **war** going on out there._

But then, she had to ponder exactly what she was doing about it herself. Stealing top secret papers from her own countrymen for profit?

_It's called 'surviving', sweetheart,_ she told herself. _You've gotta take care of yourself. Let the boys in the trenches take care of themselves, too._

Thoughts of Trent crossed her mind at that, but she roughly pushed them aside. She had a job to do. She had to focus.

"Frulein Lane?"

The monotone voice cut straight through her like a dull knife. In a state of complete shock, she turned around to find herself staring down the barrel of a Mauser C96. On the other side of it stood a brunette wearing thick-rimmed glasses and the clean lines of an SS uniform.

"Obersturmfhrer Morgendorffer," she snarled back, wishing her hand was closer to her own weapon. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance yet again."

The Nazi officer sneered at her. "_Haupt_sturmfhrer Morgendorffer now, frulein," she said. "And soon to be higher, I think, following your capture."

Despite the turn of events, Jane felt she could at least take some small comfort in the fact that she and her team weren't going to be stealing from their own countrymen after all.

And she was most definitely focused. 


	20. Quinn's Pat A Cake

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Quinn's Pat-a-Cake". Remember that cake in the episode _Lab Rat_? The one Quinn tried to give Kevin to win his favor? Just where the hell did that cake come from, anyway?

* * *

><p>"WHO DARES SUMMON M- oh hey, Quinn. What's up?"<p>

"Hi, Annidax the Dark Unholy! Sorry to bug you or whatever, but I'm _really really_ needing, like, something to get Kevin Thompson to pay attention to me, right?"

"Oh, no problem, girl! Uh, let's see, looks like . . . um, I've got a drum set here that can play any beat, no matter how you hit it. That Def Leppard guy was using it for a while, but he just gave it back a couple days ago."

"Oh, ew, one of those 80's guys? No way!"

"No? Well, okay, how about . . . ooooh, this one's very nice. A mirror that makes anyone who looks in it appear like a clown! See? Clown makeup! And everybody loves clowns!"

"_Gawd_ no! _Nobody_ loves clowns, Annidax the Dark Unholy. That's just, like, one of those rumors made up by French people who don't know any better."

"Right. Huh? So. Uh . . . plague of ants? Just a nice, swarming . . . little plague . . . still no? Well, jeez, I dunno. This might take a while. I was just about to get a slice of some cake I got from the store earlier. Want some while we figure this out?"

"Jeez. I _guess_. What kind of cake?"

"Just a chocolate layer deal."

"Hmm. Actually, y'know what? Forget the slice. I'll take the whole thing! Guys like cake, right?"

"Well, yes. Some guys. But um, I only just bought-"

"GIVE IT TO ME OR YOU'LL NEVER BE FREE OF OUR CONTRACT, YOU PITIFUL WORM!"

"Jesus Christ, _fine!_ Have the stupid cake already!"

"Thanks, Annidax the Dark Unholy! You're the _best!_"

"Yah, fine. Whatever. Just take my cake. I don't care. See you in hell. Fucking shit, seven bucks pissed straight down the drain . . . " 


	21. Crossover 2

Another one of them crazy crossovers! I wouldn't mind seeing this one continued, but I don't think I'd be the one to do it.

* * *

><p>Charles clapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "Is that everything?" he asked. "Are we, at long last, ready to light this proverbial candle?"<p>

"Um, yah, I think so," Ted said, a bit nervous. "But is it really necessary that we wear bras on our head?"

"It's for the ambiance, my bespectacled friend!" Charles assured him. "Undergoing a ritual of creation as wondrous as this requires a bit of panache, of flair, of _style!_"

Ted shrugged. Just another strange ritual of the outside world for him to throw on the mental pile. "Well, okay, if you say so. All calculations are finished, all data is downloaded, and all code is compiled. All that's left is . . . _ignition!_"

With hands trembling with excitement, Ted reached out and pressed Enter on his keyboard, initializing the program that he and Charles had spent the past several hours setting up. Both boys sat waiting, tense, staring at the screen with silent fervor broken only by the sound of the storm raging outside the window.

And then the lights went out.

"Hmm. That's not good, is it?" Charles asked, his oily voice hissing out of the darkness.

"It isn't exactly optimal, no," Ted replied. "I think-"

Whatever it was Ted thought was lost in the sudden blast of lightning that lit the entire room as bright as day. The computer suddenly popped back on, the screen rapidly flashing hundreds of images in sequence as sparks began to fly from the casing. Charles and Ted fell backwards and rolled off their chairs, yelling in dismay.

"_Turn it off! Turn it off before it blows!_" Charles screamed, cringing in terror.

As Ted dove under the desk, a windstorm kicked up in the middle of the room, throwing bits of paper and other small objects around. The lightning and sparks from the computer got worse even though Ted came back out holding the pulled plug in his hand. He and Charles looked at the still-flashing screen, glanced at each other, and bellowed fear at the top of their lungs.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The dim room remained lit by the computer screen, but it had stopped spazzing out, instead showing only a single message.

PROGRAM: COMPLETE

A creaking noise came from the other side of the room. Dreading what they would see, Charles and Ted slowly swiveled their heads that way to find that the door to Ted's bathroom had started to bulge out like an over-filled balloon. Before they could duck for cover, it exploded into a shower of wood chips that pelted the boys across the arms, shoulders, and heads.

Steam poured out of the empty doorway. A soft silhouette appeared amidst the cloud, then stepped forward to take full form as a young woman. Chestnut brown hair fell down to just past her shoulders. Doe eyes sat behind circular-framed glasses. An emerald jacket was fitted nicely around her perfect body. A short black skirt sat over an absolutely gorgeous pair of legs that went all the way down into a pair of heavy combat boots.

"So," the woman said, her voice a flat monotone with just a hint of sardonic apathy. "What would you little maniacs like to do first?" 


	22. Stupid Sexy Daria

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Stupid Sexy Daria". I loved this idea, as did everyone else, it seems. The object was to take an actual scene from the show and then twist it into something sexual and perverted. My second entry here his my favorite, and it's what eventually led me to writing _The Latest Fashion_.

* * *

><p>"Okay, that does it," Daria said, standing up from the handmade couch. "I'm sorry, Ted. I can't keep up with you."<p>

Ted looked up at her, perplexed. "Keep up? What are you talking about? _You're_ the remarkable one!"

" . . . oh," she replied simply as she sat back down again.

"I mean, please don't take this wrong," Ted told her, "but you've got it all!"

Daria shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "Um, thanks," she said, then figured, _Eh, what the hell. He does seem like a nice enough guy, and he obviously likes me for whatever strange reason._ Reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulled out a small wrapped object and poked it his way. "Here, want some sex?"

"Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully as he took the condom from her hand. It wasn't exactly how he had thought the day was going to go, but who was he to complain?

* * *

><p>"Very good, Daria," DeMartino said, slightly stunned. "Almost . . . <em>suspiciously<em> good. All right, class, who can tell me which war Manifest Destiny was used to justify." He scanned the room with his bulging eye, then pointed at a boy wearing a football uniform, shoulder pads included.

"_Kevin!_" he barked. "How about _you?_"

Kevin appeared to think over the question for a moment, though it seemed obvious that very little thinking was actually taking place. "Um . . . the Vietnam War?" he finally said.

"That came a little later, Kevin," the teacher informed him. "A _hundred years_ later. A lot of good men DIED in that conflict, Kevin. I believe we OWE it to them to at LEAST get _the century right!_ Now take off that jersey!"

"Aw, _man_," Kevin grumbled as he dutifully stripped off the requested item of clothing. "Uh . . . Operation Watergate?"

DeMartino's eye threatened to pop out and fly across the room. "_Shoulder pads! NOW!_" Then, as Kevin removed the pads as well, he calmly said, "Son, promise me you'll come back and see me some day when you've got the Heisman trophy and a chain of strip clubs, and I'm saving up for a _second pair of pants_. Can you PROMISE me that, Kevin?"

"Sure!"

"Can I come, too?" a perky blonde cheerleader seated next to Kevin chimed in. "I mean, if Kevin and I are still together."

Kevin looked over at her, full of confidence despite being stripped to the waist in the middle of history class. "We will be, babe!" he assured her. "We will be."

DeMartino turned to the cheerleader, giving her a predatory grin and speaking to her as if to a small child. "Aaaaah, _Brittany_ . . . can YOU guess which war we fought against the Mexicans over _Manifest Destiny?_"

"Ummmm . . . no!" she cheerfully replied.

"SHIRT! NOW!" he bellowed. "And please _try_, Brittany!"

The blonde rolled her eyes and deftly pulled her cheerleading top up and over her head with practiced ease, not even mussing the ponytails on either side of her head. "Uh . . . the Viet _Cong_ War?" she ventured.

"_Off with the Cross-Your-Heart!_" he snarled, turning on the rest of the class as Brittany unleashed her double-D's. "Either SOMEone gives me the answer, or I give you ALL double homework and a QUIZ tomorrow! I want a volunteer with the answer! NOW!"

Daria waited for someone else - anyone else - to raise their hand, but it quickly became obvious that it was up to her. She lifted her arm into the air, but DeMartino merely fixed her with the stink eye.

"Daria!" he yelled at her. "Remove EVERYthing! If you're going to be a SHOW OFF, you might as well show _ALL of it off!_"

As she got up to start stripping, Daria wondered if moving to Lawndale had been such a great idea after all. Due to the slipping standards of the educational system back in Highland, there at least you got two chances before anything had to come off.

_I guess this'll teach me to hope for something more challenging ever again,_ she thought ruefully, dropping her skirt to the floor.

* * *

><p>The piercing trill of a whistle broke the air of the gymnasium. "Okay, ladies, listen up!" Ms. Morris yelled. "Since it's 'Focus on Agility' month, for the rest of the class I want you all to work on your spins, splits, and 69's! Brittany, that's a perfect split!"<p>

Brittany, who was standing on her head with both legs spread to form the shape of a T, smiled as best she could. "Thanks, Ms. Morris!" she chirped before falling forward hard onto the mat.

Daria and Jane watched from the bleachers as two of the other girls tried to help Brittany up. "Funny how all the drills for 'Focus on Agility' month are the same ones you'd do if you were trying to sneak a sex education practice into regular gym class," Daria scoffed.

"Yes," Jane agreed heartily, "and I don't intend to stand for it! They can have my pelvic thrusts when they pry them from my cold, dead hips!"

" . . . what?"

"I don't know." 


	23. Catoptrophobia

I have catoptrophobia. This, for those of you not fully conversant in your phobias, is the irrational fear of mirrors. I've long wanted to write a story incorporating this fear, partially as a sort of cathartic exercise and partially to see if I can stand to actually do so without scaring the shit out of myself in the process. I still have plans to do so, but until I do get a full fic out of it, I've written this little snippet . . .

* * *

><p>Stacy stared at the other Stacy in the mirror and wondered why she was so plain. So poorly dressed. So horrifically unstylish.<p>

It was a curse. Some sort of curse, it had to be. She tried so hard. She did everything that Sandi asked of her, did everything that the magazines said she should do, followed every trend, bought into every fad. But none of it seemed to help.

She had no worth as a girl or as a human being, and she was finally on the verge of giving up for the fifth time that week. Or was it the sixth? She'd lost count, and it didn't really matter. The other Stacy stared back at her, frowning in disapproval that she saw echoed in the eyes of everyone around her. She was just glad that she was alone in the school restroom so that unfriendly glare was only coming from a single pair of eyes at that moment.

_tink_

Both Stacies jumped slightly at the tiny sound. She spun in a circle, looking around to ascertain where it had come from, but she saw nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary.

_tink_

There it was again, that tiny sliver of noise that grated on the teeth and needled its way into the ear. It had been slightly louder than last time, however, allowing Stacy to immediately zero in on it. She was looking at the other Stacy once more, and with a soft "oh!" of surprise, she noticed that her mirror twin had accrued a small crack right in the middle of her forehead.

No, that was just an illusion. The crack was in the glass of the mirror itself, of course, and she slowly leaned forward to take a closer look. It was only an inch and a half long, far smaller than the almost two-meter-wide mirror it was set in. If it hadn't been for the sound of its sudden arrival, Stacy figured she might not have initially noticed it at all.

The crack was almost an S shape, with the longest section in the middle running straight up and down and the smaller arms spiraling away from the ends like miniature scythe blades. It almost looked like a logo of some kind to Stacy. Fascinated, she pushed in closer and closer until it seemed to line up exactly with other Stacy's iris.

_cccccraaaaaaaaack_

Stacy gasped and jerked back from the mirror as the low whine escaped the stressed glass and the crack spider-webbed out across the reflective surface. Her back hit the bracing wall of the stalls behind her, and she found herself suddenly unable to decide whether to turn left or right to get away. The location of the door out of the restroom escaped her, and she didn't dare look away from the crackling mirror to remind herself.

Impossibly, the middle of the mirror where the original crack had appeared started to bow outward. There was a subtle sound of glass breaking accompanied by the nerve-shearing noise of thousands of pieces of silicate constantly rubbing against each other.

Chunks of the mirror seemed to flow into the center as it pushed outward, but no empty spaces were left behind, simply more shattered glass. The push itself formed a sharp pyramid that pointed directly at Stacy, slowly flowing out almost as if it were aiming for her heart. She wanted to run, wanted to scream, but everything in her had frozen up, leaving her stranded in the face of whatever it was that was happening before her.

The slivers of glass in the distended area of the mirror began to part, and amidst the sparkling sand of crushed mirror that clung to the edges almost like glue, Stacy could see something strange poking out. Five such strange somethings in fact, colored a very familiar shade and slowly dripping with red.

Her throat tightened up even harder than before when she realized she was seeing the tips of somebody's fingers poking through the jumbled mass of glass.

The fingers extended further and were followed by a hand. Then an arm, slowly pulling through the glass as a second area of the mirror began to bulge outward to release something large, round, and brown.

The head turned forward as it fully exited the mirror. The face framed by the long brown hair was severely lacerated and bleeding just like the arm before it and the shouldered coming after it, but it was still a familiar one to Stacy. Recognition freed her from her paralysis, and with a cry of terror, she jumped forward to wrap her hands around the upper part of the outstretched arm and _pulled_.

The girl sticking out of the mirror screamed in pain, an almost deafening sound in that small space, but she tightly gripped the sleeve of Stacy's jacket and tugged, trying her damndest to help the process along as much as possible. Stacy pulled with all her might as tears filled her eyes, and ever so gradually she began to feel her effort being rewarded. She took one step back, then another, until finally the girl from the mirror broke free from its grasp and tumbled down to the floor below.

The glass, having grudgingly released her, slid back up against the wall and reformed, sealing every crack and falling silent within seconds, looking as if nothing unusual had happened at all.

Stacy fell back the moment the resistance suddenly disappeared, banging her spine on the bathroom stalls but not caring. The girl was all that mattered, but Stacy wasn't entirely certain what to do. She was hurt, gashes of all shapes and sizes all over her body, blood spilling out all over the floor and staining the torn rags of her clothes dark red.

"_Puh . . . puh . . . _" the girl from the mirror spat out, the first thing she had managed to say that wasn't an animal noise of pain or fear. "_Puh . . . _"

Anguish gripped Stacy's heart as she heard the familiar voice coming from slashed lips. She'd never really known the girl all that well, but she couldn't stand to see anyone suffering as much as that poor soul was obviously suffering.

"_Please,_" Daria finally managed, looking up at Stacy with blood-rimmed eyes. "_Please . . . help me . . . _" 


	24. Amnesia

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Amnesia". Daria wakes up to see Tom and Jane before her, only she doesn't remember who they are. Or anything else for that matter. Of course, I couldn't just leave it at that.

* * *

><p>"She's awake."<p>

Two indistinct blobs floated a short distance in front of her. As they moved, she realized that they were faces, and those faces were further attached to bodies, but she couldn't make out the details. One of the blobs moved forward as the other stepped back.

"Hello?" she (_it's a woman's voice no a girl's_) said. "Can you hear me?"

"Yuh," she mumbled back, feeling as if her entire mouth was full of cotton. "Whu . . . ?"

"Just relax," the girl told her, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "It takes a little while to clear up. No one here is gonna hurt you."

"Does she (_a man a boy agitated so agitated_) remember anything?"

"I'm getting to that," the other girl snapped.

She scoured her mind and began to panic as she found huge gaps, completely empty. No name, no past, no sense of self, no anything. There was knowledge, but it was all generalized. She knew what a car was. She knew how a light bulb worked. She knew how the concept of Manifest Destiny had been used to justify the Spanish-American War.

But everything about herself was gone. Simply (_help me help me oh god help me_) gone.

"I don't . . . " she managed, then swallowed. "I don't . . . remember."

"_Great!_" the boy yelled, then swore as he kicked something.

"Who . . . ?"

The other girl's face was finally starting to come into focus, but the expression she was wearing didn't promise anything good. "Sorry, amiga," she said sadly. "We're just as clueless as you are. But I think we can solve one mystery real quick!"

Reaching over, the other girl picked something up and handed it to her. Squinting, she could see that they were a pair of round-lens glasses with thick black frames. She looked up at the other girl and back down at the glasses, then slowly put them on.

The world suddenly jumped into clarity, only slightly blurred around the edges where her eyes were slightly watering.

"Oh," she said faintly.

The girl squatting next to her was a lean figure. She looked to have no spare anything on her, though she managed to make it look healthy in a way. She was wiry, not emaciated. One side of her short jet black hair hung almost over her right eye while the other side was pulled back to reveal three chrome rings sitting in her pierced ear. Her clothes were mostly black and red, and the fact that she was wearing heavy boots seemed odd to the girl until she realized she was wearing a similar pair herself.

The boy was a brunette and seemed clean cut, and his earth-tone clothes screamed of someone who was trying far too hard to be casual. Both they and his hair had a sort of carefully-rumpled look that made her stomach twist instinctively. His face looked like it would be pleasant enough to look at if he'd simply stop scowling (_control he doesn't like not being in control of the situation_) for just a few seconds.

Besides the heavy boots, she herself was wearing a short black skirt, a t-shirt of an almost unidentifiable color, and a dark green jacket. If it was a normal bit of attire for her, she couldn't tell. It seemed almost like the leftovers from a Salvation Army bin.

Turning her attention away from the room's inhabitants, she started looking over the room itself which was small and mostly bare. The ceiling and upper walls were a uniform navy blue while everything from approximately waist-height down was a sort of dark grey rubberized surface (_padded walls barred windows an institution away from institution_) with uniform shallow valleys running horizontal every few inches. These valleys ran both ways on the floor, leaving the rubber there in the shape of raised tiles.

Several of what looked like small metal crates were strewn about the edges of the room, just the right size for sitting on and with no readily apparent openings. In the very middle sat a wide column that ran from ceiling to floor seamlessly and had several rows of what seemed to be panels all along its surface. Panels that further appeared to be locked with massive latches.

And thinking of panels . . .

"No need to strain yourself looking," the other girl said, following her searching gaze. "There aren't any doors. At least, none we've been able to find."

"This is impossible," she moaned as she allowed herself to be pulled to a standing position.

"No kidding," the boy replied, rolling his eyes. "We just-"

He was interrupted by a massive blast of sound that came from every direction. The girl threw her hands across her ears as the others did the same, but the noise still made it through, blaring almost as loud as a passing jet engine.

Strangely, she began to notice that the sounds had a sort of rhythm to them. Once she noticed, she tried to listen as carefully as she could through the cushioning of her palms, and sure enough there was a (_words they're words it's a language_) repeated pattern.

The noise stopped, allowing the three of them to lower their hands and breathe in sighs of relief. Then just as they were starting to relax, several heavy _pop_s sounded off like gunshots as the latches on one of the column's panels flew wide, allowing the panel to slide downward.

In the small space revealed sat three identical levers in front of three identical panels that lit up with strange symbols that none of them recognized.

"What . . . what the hell is this?" the boy asked, staring wide-eyed at the levers.

No one seemed inclined to answer for a few moments, then the girl stepped toward the open panel, pushed her glasses up on her nose, and frowned deeply.

"If I had to take a guess," she finally said in a bitter monotone, "I think it's our first test." 


	25. Uniforms

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Uniforms". Pricipal Li decides to crush the spirits of her students by forcing them to wear costumes . . . that look just like Daria's regular outfit.

* * *

><p>"Tragedy struck today when a terrorist bombing hit Lawndale High School. Officials say that Principal Angela Li received a video tape earlier in the day by a group calling themselves the 'Fashion Cell'. On the tape, they demanded that the recently instituted uniform policy at the school be retracted, using the threat of a bomb as an incentive. Li reportedly ignored this threat and continued the school day as normal while having the janitors quietly search the grounds for any explosive devices, which they were unable to find before an explosion destroyed a large section of the school cafeteria. That area of the school was empty at the time and there were no injuries or fatalities, but the school board is having to set up a catering service for school lunches until the damage is repaired. At this time the identities of the Fashion Cell's members are unknown and are believed to still be at large. An investigation is currently ongoing into Principal Li's misconduct concerning the handling of the situation, and classes at Lawndale High have been canceled until a thorough search and investigation of the grounds can be completed. Now for the weather . . . " <p>


	26. Guilty Pleasures Redux

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Guilty Pleasures Redux". Exactly what it says on the tin, the participants were to explore some of the guilty pleasures enjoyed by the denizens of Lawndale.

* * *

><p>"BAM! Popcorn!"<p>

Jane flopped down in her seat on the couch and offered the bowl to Daria, who took a handful of the fluffy white snack.

"Thanks, Chef Emeril," she said around a mouthful as she turned on the TV. The _Sick, Sad World_ logo instantly appeared as the episode began. Both girls settled back, ready for the latest in deviant deviations and mutated mutants the seedy underworld of tabloid broadcasting had to offer.

Several minutes passed as strange images of obviously faked medical oddities and videos of mythical creatures flickered on the screen. Jane finally let out a disgruntled sigh.

"Another rerun," she groused.

Daria squinted at the screen. "You sure?"

"Yah, look at that unicorn in the background," Jane said, pointing. "Remember, you made that stupid joke about it being 'horny', and I pretended to laugh because I'm such a good friend?"

"The best," Daria returned in a deadpan. "Okay, yah, you're right. So what now?"

"I dunno. Watch something else?"

"Why that borders on blasphemy. We may have to burn you at the stake." Daria fell silent, then nervously shifted in her seat. "Uh, actually . . . there's this other thing we could watch. Maybe. I guess. If, y'know, you're interested."

Jane raised an eyebrow and looked over at her best friend, who's ears had begun to turn a violent shade of red. "Oh, yah?" she said. "What's that?"

"I . . . uh, it's . . . nothing," Daria mumbled into her chest. "Forget I said anything."

"No no no, it's too late for that turtle thing to work now, Morgendorffer! Out with it, or I shall have to fetch young Miss Quinn and her torture devices."

At first it looked like Daria was simply going to continue staring at her own lap, but finally she looked up in mock horror. "Not . . . the _curling iron?_"

"_Especially_ the curling iron!" Jane cackled madly. "Now c'mon, what was it? You can tell me. I won't judge. This is a judge-free zone. This house has been de-judge-ified."

Daria glanced away briefly. "Well . . . okay," she said. "But, whether we watch it or not, this doesn't reach anybody else's ears, got it?"

"I swear on a stack of Van Goghs that I shall never divulge your terrible, terrible secret."

"I was thinking," Daria said with great deliberation, "that we could watch . . . _MyLittlePony:FriendshipisMagic!_"

The title flew out of Daria's mouth so fast that Jane was unsure whether or not she had heard correctly. Daria was looking away from her, but the red on her ears hadn't gone anywhere and, in fact, appeared to be several shades brighter. When she looked back over, Jane was staring at her, eyes wide and brow knit.

"You," Jane said, just as slow and careful as Daria before, "want to watch . . . _My Little Pony_?"

"It's not like the old _My Little Pony_!" the brunette gushed out, trying to explain as tears seemed to well up in her eyes. "I swear, it's got far better animation, writing, and it-"

"OH MY GOD I LOVE _MY LITTLE PONY: FRIENDSHIP IS MAGIC_ LET'S DO THIS SHIT!" Jane yelled, her face lighting up like a million light bulbs all going off at once.

Daria was completely taken aback. "W-what?" she stammered. "You like it too?"

Jane nodded vehemently and said, "I thought I was the only one! Change it change it change it quick!"

Daria looked down at the remote in her hand like she'd never seen anything like it before, then shook her head to clear the confusion and switched the TV over to The Hub. They'd missed the opening scene, but the theme song had just started up.

"_Yes!_" Jane exclaimed, munching on popcorn and offering Daria another handful, which the other girl happily took. Even before they could finish chewing and swallowing, they found themselves too caught up in the cheerful tune blaring from the television speakers and took turns singing along.

_"Big adventure!"_

_"Tons of fun!"_

_"A beautiful heart!"_

_"Faithful and strong!"_

_"Sharing kindness!"_

_"It's an easy feat!"_

_"And magic makes it all complete! You have My Little Pony! Do you know, you are my very best frieeeeeeeeeeeends!"_


	27. Bad Scenes 1

There's this thread on the PPMB wherein people write scenes that _Daria_ fics should simply never have. I had never written one before, so I decided to give it a try on day.

* * *

><p>The first hook goes in her right ear, at the very top. The cartilage is stubborn at first, but with a rough grab and a push, it's through.<p>

The second goes in right over her cheekbone, stretching out the skin and sending a small trickle of blood down like a shiny red teardrop.

The third curves behind her eyebrow, entering above the top edge of the short bristle of hairs and coming out directly under the bottom. More blood, this time trickling into her eye, forcing her to close it.

The fourth hook is for her nose, the point curling out of her nostril.

Her cheek. Her lower lip. Her chin. Then to the left side, repeating the pattern back up, all except for the one over her other eyebrow. She needs to see, after all.

The skin on her face is stretched out, pulled tight by the hooks and the elastic bands that they are each tied to. Two of them are tearing the skin that they are in, but she can barely tell which two through the pain. Everything has become this pain. Even the chafing of the bands tightly binding her wrists and ankles have ceased to be a concern in the face of this white hot inferno of pure agony.

One last hook. The sides of her mouth are squeezed, and she doesn't dare keep it closed. It will be so much worse for her if she doesn't cooperate. She opens her lips and slowly slides out her quivering, drooling tongue.

This hook is not attached to the walls of the basement. This one is on a long strap held by the man standing in front of her. He holds it loosely, admiring the metal poking through the top of the bleeding muscle. He doesn't pull on it. Not yet.

He leans down, looking straight into her one open eye. He smiles slightly, ever so slightly.

"There," he says, his voice barely above a breathy whisper. "Now. Are you ever gonna look in my song notebook again without my permission?"

She had been trying to help him get out of jail. It had only been a small peek. It wasn't a crime worthy of this punishment. But she can't deny him.

She knows the pain it's going to bring. She does it anyway.

She shakes her head _no._


	28. Crossover 3

Another crossover.

* * *

><p>"<strong>Hello, Charles. I want to play a game.<strong>

**For years you have wasted away your life in the pursuit of women that have no interest in you whatsoever. You try again and again, each attempt merely building upon the futility of the last. To an outside observer, it would appear that you have an indomitable will that drives you forward, a lust for life and for flesh that cannot be contained.**

**But is the outside observer truly observing you, Mr. Ruttheimer? I think not. Your vast array of come-ons and pick-up lines are designed specifically to incite failure. On the rare occasion a woman takes you up on your offer or shows any other kind of interest in you whatsoever, you shrink away from them. I propose that you are so caught in your own feelings of inferiority and inadequacy that you shield yourself with a solid curtain of words, allowing you to interact with the lives of others without having to live your own.**

**In the case before you, you will find all of the instruments you require to escape the room you are currently in, but be warned. Using them will come at a price. You have fifteen minutes to break out of your shell or you will find yourself trapped inside of it forever.**

**The searing pain of freedom or the cold embrace of solitude.**

**Make your choice.**" 


	29. Crossover 4

Yet another crossover! Is there no end? Though I'd actually love to see this one completed.

* * *

><p>"Noah, man," Trent breathed, terrified as he walked amongst the marked chambers. "What the hell have you done?"<p>

"Exactly what I set out to do," Noah Barkman replied.

Trent pulled his lips back in a grimace, baring his teeth. "Who are they?" he asked.

"I don't really see how that is of any consequ-"

"_Who. Are they?_"

For a moment, the two men stared each other down, Trent furious, Noah completely at ease. Finally, with a small laugh, Noah was the first to break the gaze as he turned to the first chamber.

"Tom Sloane, the First Born Son. Heir to a massive fortune until his younger sister began to poison him. He died, but not quickly. And certainly not without pain.

"Anthony DeMartino, the Torso," the billionaire continued, moving to the next container. "A teacher of meager means who sought to elevate himself financially through gambling. He lost a little too often for his bookie's tastes. I'm sure I don't need to elaborate on how much of him was left after an example had been made.

"Jodie Landon, the Bound Woman. Hard worker. Too hard. Owning one business is hard enough on a person. Owning seven and attempting to run them all at the same time without any help? They say the rope she hung herself with was the best money could buy.

"Daria Sloane, the Withered Lover. So tragic. Married to the good Mister Tom, she had to go when she found out about her sister-in-law's poisonous plans. The coroners were reasonably certain that it was her corpse found amidst the ashes.

"Michael Mackenzie, the Torn Prince. He might have ended up playing with the best of the NFL if not for the drunk driver that tore half of both him and his vehicle to ribbons. He never awoke from the eight month coma.

"Brittany Thompson, the Angry Princess. She managed to find at least five of the women with whom her husband had affairs. She killed them, one by one, then him, then herself, all done with a dull kitchen knife.

"Valerie Wilde, the Pilgrimess. A reporter for fashion magazines. Traveled around the world. Tried every single type of illicit drug known to man. Went on a trip one day and never came back, her body ravaged by all the various substances she had smoked, inhaled, shot up, and ingested.

"Fredrika Johanssen, the Great Child. Dearly loved her chocolate, our Mrs. Johanssen, despite the fact that she was a few hundred pounds overweight and had already lost one of her feet quite painfully to diabetes.

"Helen Morgendorffer, the Dire Mother. They say when her youngest daughter finally snapped, she continued to nag about everything, including the technique with which she as being repeatedly stabbed in the chest and abdomen.

"Tommy Sherman, the Hammer. Every bone in his body had been broken and reset before the end, but still he continued to run every football goal all the way in until he ran into the goal post, a wall, or any other inconvenient obstruction. Ironically, he was done in when a goal post fell on _him_.

"Charles Ruttheimer III, the Jackal. He started with women, but eventually his lust for blood no longer saw sex or gender. He was captured, locked up, but though they were able to keep him within the asylum walls, they were never able to keep him in restraints. He was still wearing a torn up straightjacket when he was caught in a fire that burned the building down.

"And finally, Buck Conroy, the _Juggernaut!_" Noah's eyes sparkled with wicked glee as he put a hand up against the wall of the last chamber. "No one knows for certain how many _he_ killed. A mercenary for hire in life, he bathed his hands in blood. And his own death did not stop him. Still he raged and fought and killed until I captured his spirit and put it with the others in this, the machine that will grant me the greatest power imaginable!"

"You're insane," Trent spat as he advanced on the other man. "There ain't no way I'm gonna let-"

He stopped when Noah pulled a hidden sword from his cane and leveled the point at Trent's throat.

"My dear boy," Noah said, "don't make me spill your blood. Not just yet. I still need you." A maniacal grin spread across his face. "I still need to make my thirteenth ghost . . . " 


	30. Tall Daria

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Tall Daria". It was about Daria being tall. I wrote a few entries for it. One of them is a crossover! But being a person of the tall persuasion myself, I knew exactly how it needed to start out.

* * *

><p>"Damn, my back hurts," said Daria.<p>

* * *

><p>"Ah, time for a little maxin' and relaxin'!" Kevin told himself as he leaned back against the lockers. It momentarily flitted through his mind that he might should worry about the fact that he was probably in somebody's way, but the thought was quickly chased off by mental images of puppies doing adorable things.<p>

"Haha, man, puppies are _awesome!_" he said aloud. "I wonder-"

He was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Rather than pick up where his sentence had left off or bothering to even look over at the source of the noise, he simply stared off into space and imagined what it would be like to live on the moon.

The coughing sound was much louder this time, finally breaking through his thick skull to grab his attention. "Look, buddy, I don't uh guh muh puh buh . . . "

Kevin trailed off as he looked up, and up, and up at the girl standing in front of him. Brown eyes behind thick glasses glared unhappily at him from at least a foot and a half over the top of his own head.

"You're leaning on my locker," she growled in a surprisingly deep, monotone voice.

"Uuuuuhhh . . . "

"MOVE."

Kevin moved and didn't stop until he was completely on the other side of the school.

After the football player had run off, Jane turned and looked up at her new friend.

"Okay," she said, "I'm buying some stilts today and you're teaching me how to do that."

* * *

><p>"Just don't be surprised if it takes the other kids a little while to warm . . . up . . . to . . . you?"<p>

Jake trailed off as he looked out at the students milling around in front of the school. Quinn stared out the window with her mouth hanging open in unabashed shock, while Daria merely uttered a low "huh" of mild surprise.

"Uh, so . . . right!" Jake said, trying to sound upbeat once more. "You girls have a great day at school!"

Slowly, carefully, Quinn and Daria both got out at the same time and looked around, wondering if maybe their dad had dropped them off at the wrong place. Two of the little girls ran up to them, one of them asking in a surprisingly normal teenager-sounding voice, "Hi! You're cool! What's your name?"

"Uh . . . Quinn. _Morgendorffer!_" she added quickly and smiled before they noticed her complete befuddlement.

"Cool name!" the other girl said.

"Will you go out with me?" a boy asked, looking up at her with adoration.

Quinn looked over at Daria, who simply shrugged and checked the sign behind them to make sure that, yes, it indeed said "Lawndale High School" and not "Kindergarten". Despite the fact that everyone there seemed to be acting just like normal teenagers, every single one of them was three feet tall or shorter. And more than that, they were perfectly proportioned to that size in every way the Morgendorffer sisters could see, as if someone had swept the entire campus with a shrink ray.

"I guess there must be uranium in the water here, too," Daria said with a sigh.

* * *

><p>"Ugh, crap," Daria swore as she looked at the twisted locker door in her hand. She leaned forward and put her head against the wall, letting the door dangle from her fingertips.<p>

"Well, that's alright," Jane said, patting her arm for comfort. "I mean hey, only the third one this month, right? And the janitor's used to replacing 'em by now."

"I'm just . . . _still_ not used to this," Daria growled. "You'd think I would be by now. Besides, it's kind of . . . conspicuous."

"Aw, now-"

"Don't 'aw, now' _me_, Lane. I'm nearly seven feet tall! My arms and legs are like tree trunks, and I tear almost everything I touch apart!"

Jane shrugged. "Yah, but we've been here for, what, almost six months now? And nobody has noti-"

She was cut off by an explosion that took out a wall on the other end of the corridor, scattering students. As Daria and Jane watched, horrified, several men and women in unmarked black clothing and masks came pouring through, quickly securing the area and tagging teenagers with stun darts.

"What the hell are they doing?" Jane asked, stunned. "They shouldn't be out in the open like this! What-"

"It doesn't matter!" said Daria, her earlier insecurity forgotten. "Go get DeMartino and the rest! I'll try to keep them from hurting anyone!"

Snapping back to reality, Jane nodded and bounced down the hall away from the invaders, ricocheting from wall to ceiling to floor as she pushed herself along.

Daria turned her attention back to the men in black and rushed headlong toward them, yelling out a battlecry. Several of them turned her direction and immediately let out a salvo of stun darts that she deftly blocked with the locker door still in her hand. Once she reached them, the few who hadn't been smart enough to get out of the way were bowled completely over.

Once she had skidded to a stop, Daria turned back around and started snatching the attackers up before they could regroup and started throwing them bodily back out of the building. All alone she was an easy target. She had to keep them off-balance, buy the rest enough time to figure something out.

"Miss LANE, I'm am about to start teaching a CLASS here." DeMartino's frown looked all the more foreboding for the pure white scarred eye, but Jane stood her ground as she caught her breath.

"IO!" she finally managed to wheeze out. "They're _here!_"

The look on DeMartino's face didn't change, but suddenly it seemed as if something darker had come to underlie it. He turned to the students and calmly stated, "Class disMISSED."

Jane was already out the door as he pulled a shoulder holster complete with pistol out of a desk drawer and strapped it on. He would catch up with her easily - he always did - and she needed to gather the rest as quickly as possible.

Fortunately, she knew exactly where the other three would be since it was the same class she and Daria had been about to attend before the interruption. She burst into the science lab, and without even giving Ms. Barch a glance she shouted, "IO! Asswhuppin' time!"

"Aw_right!_" Kevin shouted, pumping his fist in the air. When he noticed the way the other were looking at him, he quickly corrected himself. "Uh . . . oh no?"

Shaking his head, Tom lit up with fire, lifted from the ground, and flew past Jane and out the door. Jodie, Jane, and Kevin quickly followed. DeMartino was already waiting for them just outside.

"Where is DARIA?"

Jane led the way.

Daria's eyes went bleary as the stun darts finally began to take their toll. She had tried to avoid as many as possible and had even managed to take down a few of the operatives by using them as human shields, but a few darts still got through and dotted her large frame.

IO was obviously getting desperate, attacking in the open with so many witnesses, but still wanting to get their experiments back in the lab. Even if they had failed as the controlled super-soldiers they had been intended to be, they could still be cut apart and studied to make a new, better batch.

Daria wasn't going to let them do that. She stepped forward, swung a massive fist, and missed her target completely as she staggered under the million pounds of weight that the knockout juice coursing through her veins was piling upon her.

And then suddenly, she was as light as air, floating up above the conflict.

"There THERE, my dear GIRL," she heard a familiar voice say from so very far away. "I think WE can _handle it from here_."

The sky began to darken as Jodie lifted her hands toward the heavens, lightning sparkling around her fingertips. Kevin reached down and grabbed a twisted locker door he found on the ground, his skin and clothing immediately starting to take on the same metal properties. The flames surrounding Tom leaped higher and higher into the sky, just as Jane levitated up to the same heights.

DeMartino telekinetically set Daria down against the side of the school and then moved to join them.

"SO," he said as he surveyed the remaining members of International Operations. "You want to pick on CHILDREN, do you? CHILDREN," he directed at the four teenagers standing beside him, "_pick back_."

* * *

><p>"Excuse me."<p>

Tommy looked over, did a double take, then started to slowly scan the new arrival from her feet up.

"That's right," she said, obviously displeased, "keep going. It's gets _worse_."

Ignoring the ugly look she was giving him, Tommy gave out a low whistle. "Damn, baby, do those legs go _all_ the way up?"

"Yah, they'll go all the way up your ass if you don't get out of the way of my locker," she retorted.

Seeing that she was very deadly serious, he held up his hands in surrender and, for once, decided to move on. After he left, Jane said, "Man you're cranky in this Iron Chef, amiga."

"I _told_ you my back hurts," Daria grumbled. 


	31. Screams of Silence Alternate Scene

Hey, remember that scene in _Screams of Silence_ where Daria just barely gets away from the demon squirrels in the police station by using the elevator? One of my readers said "In case of emergency, use stairs." And then _this_ happened.

* * *

><p>I'm not sure if the rumbling I'm feeling is from the phone, my nerves, a stampede of demon squirrels, or some combination of all three. What I do know is that I have to move move MOVE. The elevator's an obvious deathtrap with no exit, so I abandon it and lunge for the door to the emergency stairwell, even though I'm half-convinced that it's going to be stubbornly locked.<p>

The handle turns and the door swings wide! Sweet Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, Eris, Atheia, and Agnostica, it's open! I duck in, shut the door behind me, and start to scramble up the stairs to get to the second floor.

I suddenly run up against a brick wall. Quite literally, a brick wall stopping any progress beyond the fifth step. I slam against it with my shoulder in frustration, then jump back down and swing around to go down instead. I can hear scratching and scrabbling just outside the door now, but apparently the demon squirrels don't know how to properly use a doorknob.

No. Aw, no, come _on!_

I'm standing on bricks. A horizontal wall of bricks ten steps down, almost as if there was a brick pipe in the basement for bricks to be pumped through and the pipe burst, flooding everything with bricks. I could try to dig through with my tire iron. But how long would that take? And how many layers of bricks will be on the other side?

My hands start to shake, and I drop the brick and the iron both. My heart sinks straight down into my gut, then slowly slides even further until it's sitting in my feet.

I'm trapped.

Absolutely trapped.

As my shoulders begin to twitch, I stand up and walk up the steps like a robot stuck in automatic mode. I stop next to the door, which is still squealing and clicking with the sounds of little metal claws being dragged against its surface. I look through the tiny window slit, and I see the burning red eyes of the mecha-harpy staring in at me.

Unlike the squirrels, it isn't trying to get in. It's just standing there, as if pure liquid patience is running through its hydraulic systems. And I wonder the same thing it must be wondering. Will I choose a slow, horrible death of starvation and dehydration?

Or will I open the door?

I lean back against the wall, slide down to the floor, and bury my face in my hands as I begin to cry.

**Game Over.**

_Load? YES/no_


	32. Enemies at First Sight

Written for an Iron Chef titled "Enemies at First Sight". What if instead of instantly becoming best friends, Daria and Jane had a slightly . . . _different_ reaction?

* * *

><p>"He doesn't know what it means. He's got the speech memorized. Just enjoy the nice man's soothing voice."<p>

Daria whipped around in her seat, eyes wild. "Oh my God!" she yelled. "We are enemies now!"

She and Jane both jumped up on their desks, balancing precariously.

"Prepare to Kung Fu Fight!" Jane screamed as they fell into fighting stances and then launched into the air, punching and kicking hard enough to cause massive explosions of _chi_ energy to wash across the room.

Mr. O'Neill watched them for a few moments before shaking his head sadly. "Why does this have to happen every single semester?" he asked no one in particular. 


	33. Bad Scenes 2

This was written for the Scenes No _Daria_ Fic Should Have thread. But I dunno. Maybe a fic should have it.

* * *

><p>With slow, deliberate movements, she removed the cap from the bottle and dumped the contents onto the cracked surface of the table. Every pill had its place on that table, and she carefully put them there. The letters etched into the sides of the pills all faced the right way. Every edge was exactly the same distance from every other edge.<p>

Then, with the same dispassionate expression she had worn while arranging the pills, she smashed the butt of the pistol down into the middle of the rows, scattering them and sending them rattling off the table, onto the floor. She lifted the pistol and stared down at the powder that she had made. Some of it still clung to the bottom of her hand, and she resisted the urge to lick it off.

"This, like, isn't healthy," the voice said from behind her.

"Thank you, Sandi. I'm well aware of that."

The brunette walked around to the other side of the table, squatted down, and laid her chin on her forearms. "Maybe you should see a doctor or something. We need everyone in the club to be in their best mental condition, or-"

The first bullet went straight through Sandi's skull, into her brain, exploding out the other side even as she turned into mist and disappeared completely.

"Whooooooa," another girl droned. "Does that, like, make you presideeeeeeeent?"

The second bullet pierced Tiffany's heart, bursting her like a bubble.

The annoyances gone, she looked down upon her handiwork once more. With one quick movement, she swept the remaining pills from the table's surface. They ticked and they tacked on the concrete, tiny echoes in the large room.

When Quinn arrived, she pointed the gun directly at the freckled skin just under the fiery bangs. The barrel pressed up against the flesh, indenting it and possibly leaving a mark from the intensity with which it was being pushed, but Quinn didn't seem to notice or care.

"You're being unreasonable, Stacy," the readhead told her. "Now pick up those pills and take a couple of them. _Please_. We don't want to lose you."

She shook her head and didn't look directly at her friend, possibly the only friend she had ever really had. The pills didn't work. They hadn't worked for a long time. Other measures were required. Quinn needed to see that. Needed to understand that.

"Sta-"

The third bullet cracked like a whip, and Quinn was gone.

With none of the care or patience she had shown earlier, she tossed the table into the air, turning it over. She kicked it aside as she stood and stalked into the middle of the dark, dank room. Placing the cold circle up against her temple, she squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the trigger.

The fourth bullet didn't come.

Letting her empty hand drop to her side, she looked up to find herself in the bathroom, hands gripping the sink counter. The top was off the bottle, and two pills sat next to it. With movement mechanical, she picked them up and popped them in her mouth. A few seconds later, they went down her throat and stayed down.

The fourth bullet hadn't come.

It never did.

And Stacy was so fucking sick of it she could scream. 


	34. The Name Game

Written for an Iron Chef titled "The Name Game". Participants were to take their forum name (mine is Jim North, just for reference) and use it as the title to a _Daria_ fic. I wrote two! They are both horrible, terrible things.

* * *

><p>Ted looked around himself in wide-eyed wonder. Despite his parents' reactionary preaching, it didn't seem that Lawndale High School was covered with the blood of the innocent, nor were the students feasting upon each other in bacchanal glee. In fact, everything seemed even more calm and orderly than even he himself had imagined it would be. A bit a roughhousing in the halls between classes, perhaps, but that was only to be expected given the tribal social structure that humans had evolved.<p>

Yes, switching over from homeschooling was indeed the right choice, he had decided. Unfortunately, one of the downsides was that the school was much larger than his house, and he didn't quite know where everything was yet. After getting turned around for the fourth time in the maze-like halls, he stopped another student to ask directions to his next class.

"Hello! I'm sorry for disturbing you," he said, "but could you tell me where I might find the gym?"

"North," the other kid replied, pointing down the hallway.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Jim North, The Newer Kid<span>**

"Who is _that?_" Jane asked in wonder, a tone unusual enough to actually cause Daria to look up from her locker and glance around.

Her glance immediately turned into a stare as she laid eyes on the more gorgeous hunk of man she had ever seen walk the halls of Lawndale High. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He was an Adonis, allowed to walk the earth so that all others might share in his beauty.

And he walked right up to her and Jane.

"Hello," he said, his deep voice pouring over them like rich chocolate matched only by the manly mane of wavy chestnut brown locks pouring across his shoulders. "I just transferred in and was hoping that I might get some help finding my way around. My name is Jim. Jim North."

"Uuuuuuh," Daria said intelligently.

"YES!" Jane yelled out. "Yes, yes, oh God yes!"

Shaking her head, Daria attempted to start over. "Uh, what my colleague here means is that we would be happy to show you around."

"Thanks," Jim said, giving them a winning smile. They were almost certain they even saw a cartoony sparkle come from one of his perfect teeth, but it was difficult to tell with the arms that suddenly flung themselves around his neck and head. Two legs joined them by encircling his waist. Despite this attack and added weight, he stood steady on legs brimming with muscles and strength, obvious even through his jeans.

Stacy's head popped over his shoulder, and her expression was one of pure bliss. "Don't mind me," she said dreamily. "Go about your business . . . "

"As you wish, my dear," Jim acquiesced in the most gentlemanly of gracious manners. "By the way, would any of you fine ladies like to discuss the literature and artistic stylings of the late nineteenth to early twentieth centuries as we find our way to our first class? I like to exercise my mind whenever I have spare time, and such conversations are invariably interesting."

Daria and Jane shared a glance, then suspiciously regarded one another through slitted eyes. Quickly moving to either side of Jim and taking one of his arms each, they led him through the hallway, chattering on as he listened intently.

Stacy, meanwhile, was content with continuing to rub her cheek against the back of his neck. All in all, it was a pretty swell first day. 


	35. Save the Night

This might not make any sense unless you've read Charles RocketBoy's _God Save the Esteem_ series. It came from a strange turn in a conversation about one of the stories.

* * *

><p>Standing straight and tall, Anthony DeMartino watched the city below him sleep. His eyes scanned the horizon from one end to the other as if he could see everything, nothing hidden from his gaze. Survey finished, he crossed his arms, and he waited.<p>

He didn't have to wait long. The faintest sound of a shoe scuffing behind him on the roof gave away the newcomer's presence. He knew he was meant to know she was there. If he hadn't been, he would have heard nothing until it was too late. His lips pulled back in a wide grin that gleamed in the starlight.

And there she was, beside him at the edge, a picture of perfection. Her body was thin, lean, but well toned and tensed to spring at a moment's notice. She was energy, feral yet focused, yearning to be released.

"I was almost aFRAID that you wouldn't COME," he said.

Wind picked up, whipping across the rooftop, but his hard voice still carried easily to her ears. The only response she gave was a slight cocking of her head, as if amused by his statement.

He reached out, placing a strong hand on her denim-clad shoulder, and turned her toward him. She allowed this to happen, he being the only person who could touch her with impunity during her nightly patrol. Had he been any other man, she would have undoubtedly broken his arm in two different places.

His other hand found its way to the bottom of the paintball mask, then gently pushed it up and pulled it off, revealing the soft face beneath it. Her eyes remained locked with his until he leaned down, caressed her slender neck, and kissed her lips with a surprising sweetness.

They pulled away from each other reluctantly and only after several minutes had passed. "Ready?" he asked as he held the mask out to her.

She took it and slipped it back over her head, settling it into place with ease. A slight nod followed, and without a moment's hesitation they both jumped out into space, powerful legs carrying them across the alley below to the next rooftop.

Tonight, the citizens of Lawndale could sleep soundly. Only the evil and the unjust had anything to fear. 


	36. Bad Scenes 3

Another scene no _Daria_ fic should have.

* * *

><p>She's falling.<p>

Quinn's falling, and it's all my fault.

She said something stupid, something vapid, and I punched her shoulder.

Why did I do that? I don't do things like that. I should never have done that.

She clinging to the edge now. A fall halted, but only briefly. She's already slipping.

Stupid camping trip. Stupid cliff. Stupid punch. Stupid me.

I slide out on my belly.

I reach out my fingers to grasp hers.

And I almost make it in time. 


	37. Dire Confrontation

Another little scene that came from a conversation regarding CRB's _God Save the Esteem_ series.

* * *

><p>Dire Daria laughed roughly as glass continued to tinkle down to the ground from the busted window. If she had been with her gang it probably would have been the prelude to breaking into the Chinese restaurant beyond and wrecking the place up with nothing but heavy partying, but smashing the window itself was good enough sport as it was.<p>

She leaned down to dig out another chunk of cracked asphalt, then froze as a rhythmic knocking sound came from behind her, metal on brick. Abandoning the asphalt and pulling out her switchblade instead, she spun around low to face whatever idiot had decided to horn in on her fun.

Standing at the edge of an alleyway was another girl, her slender form clad almost entirely in denim. She held a paintball gun in her hand and was tapping the barrel up against one of the nearby buildings. Two brunette braids hung down behind her head, and her face was obscured by a heavy duty mask.

Daria snarled and flicked open her knife. "And just _who_ the _fuck_ are **_you?_**" she barked. 


	38. Bad Scenes 4 and Crossover 5

It's a Scene That Should Not Be _and _a Crossover! It's two awful tastes in one!

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chuckovers<span>**

Darth Feist surveyed the death and destruction littering the blockade runner.

* * *

><p>Chuckcutus stared across the void at his former first mate. "Resistance . . . is <em>feisty<em>."

* * *

><p>"Oh my God," said Commander Ruttheimer. "It's full of <em>rrrrawrrrs!<em>"

* * *

><p>" . . . <em>if I only had a giiiiiiirl!<em>" the Scarecrow sang.

* * *

><p>The Chuckinator held out its hand. "Come with me if you want to get <em>feisty!<em>" it said.

* * *

><p>"Hi, I'm Chucky, and I'm your boy toy to the end! <em>Ooh la la! Ha ha ha!<em>"

* * *

><p>"Shut up," she said. "Just . . . shut up! You had me at '<em>rrrawrrr<em>'!"

* * *

><p>Neochuck blinked rapidly as the connection was severed.<p>

"I know Pitch Woo," he intoned with hushed wonder.

* * *

><p>"You can trust me!" said the dashing man with the bowtie. "I'm the Doctor. Of <em>Looooooove!<em>"

* * *

><p>"Heeeey, Meg," Quagheimer greeted the young girl. "Still under 18?"<p>

"Yes, Mr. Quagheimer."

"Well," he oozed as he waggled his eyebrows, "in an alternate universe, _so am I!_"


	39. Happy Quinn Meets the Kitten of Awesome

Things were starting to get all depressing in the fics over on the PPMB.

* * *

><p>"All I can say about life is, oh God, enjoy it!"<br>-Bob Newhart

**Happy Quinn Meets the Kitten of Awesomeness**  
>by Roland 'Jim' Lowery<p>

_One bright day, Quinn_ was skipping along the sidewalk, humming a snappy tune to herself. It was a warm and sunny day, filled with all sorts of wonderful smells, like flowers and fresh cut grass and clean laundry drying in the back yard. It was a happy day, and Quinn herself was happy. Her grades were getting better at school, she had three of the most wonderful friends in the world, and she had just gotten a new t-shirt from Cashman's that fit her _juuuuust _right.

Nothing could possibly spoil her day. It could only get better.

And indeed it _did_.

Quinn skipped to a halt when she suddenly noticed a tiny kitten sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at her with its huge blue eyes. Tiny whiskers quivered ever so slightly in the breeze, a tiny pink nose sniffed at Quinn's fragrant perfume, and ears trimmed with the finest fluff turned her way. The kitten was a perfect shade of white run through with just a few stripes of grey along its back.

Carefully, so as not to scare the precious bundle of fur away, Quinn approached the kitten and held out her hand. The kitten leaned its head forward and took a few seconds to snuffle at the young girl's fingers before sticking out its little pink tongue and lapping at the tips. Overjoyed at being accepted by this prettiest of kitties, Quinn squealed with delight and gently scooped the little bundle up into her hands. She held the kitten up to the sky with the utmost majesty and gravitas.

"This," she said.

"Is the most epic kitten," she continued.

"**EVER**," she finished with absolute certainty.

And then Happy Quinn and the Kitten of Awesomeness played all day long.

**END**

Roland 'Jim' Lowery  
>June 23, 2011<p> 


	40. Stacy's Day Parade

**Stacy's Day Parade**

"Ugh, what is with all of these _people?_" Quinn asked, the disgust for her fellow man evident on her face as she and her friends tried to make their way through the crowd. They had just been walking along when all of a sudden the sidewalk had begun to swarm with folks from all over Lawndale, cheering and clapping their hands at something the Fashion Club members couldn't and figured they probably didn't want to see.

"Like, I don't know, but they are, like, so harshing on our groove," Sandi added as she discreetly elbowed one of the unwashed masses out of her way.

Tiffany, meanwhile, just sort of blissfully barged through the crowd, not seeming to really notice the people she was bumping into or who were bumping into her except to occasionally say "Hooooow ruuuuuuude."

Without warning, a rather large man pushed through from the side, trying to make his way to side of the road where all the excitement was. In his haste, he accidentally shoved Sandi several feet back and soaked one shoulder of her new blouse with spilled soda from his uncapped drink.

"Argh, that is, like, _it!_" Sandi screamed, claws finally out. She pinched, poked, and prodded violently as she spearheaded the way behind the man with the intention of forcing an apology from him immediately if not sooner, but the second she broke through the crowd and saw what was happening, she stopped and gaped.

"What is it, Sandi?" Quinn asked when she noticed that her friend had stopped. "Did you-" Her jaw hung open as well as she stepped up to the curb beside Sandi.

"Woooooooow," Tiffany droned, a perfect enough sentiment that nothing else needed to be said.

Before them was a parade that stretched far off into the distance. The head of that parade was just coming toward them, and as it passed by they watched the first float in stunned amazement.

There was Stacy, the fourth and missing member of their little club, standing on the leading edge of the float which bore her likeness. Her arms were thrown up in the air in triumph, her face an unfamiliar mask of crazed enthusiasm brimming with self-confidence.

"YEAH!" she was screaming at the top of her lungs. "YES! I WIN, MOTHERFUCKERS! THIS IS MY DAY! HELL YEAH! THAT'S RIGHT! I'M QUEEN BITCH NOW! **I'M THE AWESOME ONE!**"

As the float continued rolling along, Stacy would occasionally point at people out in the audience and inform them how much they sucked compared to how much she ruled. No one seemed to be taking any offense at this, and in fact cheered all the louder for it. And as the rest of the parade started to pass by and Stacy's float receded in the distance, it slowly dawned on Sandi, Quinn, and Tiffany that when Stacy's eyes had passed over them, there had been neither joy or sorrow, neither love nor hate.

She had stared right through them as if they were beneath her notice completely.

"Well, that was certainly . . . something," Sandi said, stunned. And then, without another word, the three of them faded back into the crowd as several more Stacy-themed floats cruised slowly down the road to the crowd's great delight. 


	41. And Not A Single Care Was Given That Day

Written for an Iron Chef entitled "And not a single care was given that day" in which not a single care is given.

* * *

><p>"Jane, I kissed your boyfriend. I kissed Tom."<p>

Daria stopped in the middle of the hallway as a pair of sunglasses descended from the ceiling and fell into place in front of her regular glasses.

"Deal with it," she said before sauntering off.

Jane watched after her for a moment, then shrugged, lit a cigarette, and went on to class, giving a ridiculously small amount of fuck. 


	42. The Pleasant Dimension

Written for an Iron Chef entitled "Pleasantville" in which _Daria_ and the excellent movie _Pleasantville _get crossed over.

* * *

><p>Trent's glazed eyes barely moved as the images on the TV screen flickered this way and that, but still he was taking every moment of it in. Ever since he had stumbled across the old black and white 50's show a few days ago he'd been looking forward to catching this <em>Pleasantville <em>marathon. He had therefore draped his body lazily across the old stuffed chair and didn't plan on moving an inch until it was over.

It took him a few moments, therefore, to notice that someone else was in the room with him, standing just a couple of feet from his right arm, which was dangling lifelessly over the chair's armrest. He didn't have to look over to know it was his little sister Janey, considering she was just about the only other person regularly in the house. The rest of their family could be . . . well, anywhere really.

"So hey there, Trent," Jane finally said after a minute or two had passed. "Pay the bills today?"

"Hnn," Trent grunted in response.

"Get some guitar practice in?"

"Hnn."

"Get onto that lazy-ass contractor about the lousy job he's doing on the gazebo?"

"Hnnnn."

"Do nothing but watch this crappy old show for the past six hours?"

" . . . mmm."

"That figures," Jane said with a sigh. Then, with a little more bitterness than she had intended, she added, "Well, just keep on keepin' on, then."

Trent barely noticed her leaving the room, but that small part of him that did really wished that she would come back and sit down to watch a little of the show with him. She would see what he saw in it, he was sure of that. In the small town of Pleasantville, people were happy. Productive. Friendly. And most importantly . . . there were families. _Real _families, who loved and supported each other. Families that-

A burst of static suddenly derailed his train of thought. With mounting panic, he stared at the lost TV signal. He groped for the remote, his muscles complaining at having to move after having been settled down for so long, but when he snatched it up and started pressing buttons, nothing happened. And just as he was contemplating actually standing up to go bang on the old TV set, the doorbell rang.

Trent blinked furiously at the sunlight that streamed in after he opened the door. Once his eyes had adjusted, he looked out to see a older looking gentleman wearing an old fashioned set of coveralls and carrying a heavy toolbox in one hand. He tipped his cap in Trent's direction and smiled.

"Oh hi there!" the strange little man said cheerfully. "Having some TV troubles are ya?"


	43. The Beauty Monster

Halloween was approaching and I started thinking about all the threads on the PPMB that have to do with posting little snippets of various types of stories. There wasn't such a thread for little bits of horror, so I made one: Scream Scenes. This was my initial offering to the scream demons.

* * *

><p>"Hi, Mrs. Griffin! Is Sandi home?"<p>

Stacy smiled at Linda Griffin's back, but the older woman didn't look around. She continued staring fixedly at the kitchen table, hands in front of her, head down.

"Yes, she's upstairs," Linda said, her normally strong voice strangely muted. Stacy frowned slightly at this, but figured that Sandi's mom must have brought home some important paperwork from her job and had to finish it quickly. It would explain why Stacy had needed to let herself into the house. A spike of sympathy ran through her light frame. She'd had a few tough all-night homework benders herself, not that she'd admit that to the rest of the Fashion Club.

Deciding not to disturb Mrs. Griffin any more than necessary, Stacy turned on her heel and started up the stairs that led to the bedrooms. She listened along the way for any of the regular hustle and bustle of Sandi's younger brothers or even her father, but everything about the house was still and silent. Not even the sound of the central air conditioning could be hear humming in the walls. But it seemed just a little bit chilly in the house anyway, so it seemed that it might have just finished a cycle recently.

Stacy reached the second floor and stepped onto the plush carpet of the hall. Sandi's room was the second on the right, its placement so well engraved in Stacy's memory that she could probably have found her way there from the front door blindfolded in the dark with both her hands tied behind her back. The door sat slightly open, so she gently pushed it in further and softly called out.

"Sandi?"

The hinges creaked slightly as Stacy slowly moved inside, one hesitant step at a time. She was just about to call her friend's name again when she looked over at the vanity table and noticed Sandi sitting there, staring into the mirror. Though she couldn't see the other girl's face, she could still see that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

A few months back, Sandi had been involved in an accident that had broken her leg, resulting in her gaining several extra pounds while being bed-ridden. With Quinn's help, she'd lost all of that weight, but now it seemed she had somehow gained it all back and more. And since she had looked fine earlier that day in school, it seemed she had packed it all on in mere hours.

"Sandi, what . . . what happened?" Stacy asked as she walked up behind her friend and put a hand on a thick, flabby shoulder.

Sandi's face was still hidden from Stacy, covered by lanky locks of the girl's hair. Her voice, guttural and low, came from within the tangle of brown vines.

"The same thing that's been happening every month, Stacy."

Stacy screwed up her face in confusion. "But . . . I don't remember this ever happening before," she said. "Not like _this!_"

Sandi sighed, then with a quickness that belied her size, she reached up and grasped Stacy's arm in an iron grip. "You, like, _never_ remember," she told the frightened girl as her hair fell back from her hideously deformed face. "It's probably for the best. Or whatever."

As Stacy tugged and cried and begged and tried futilely to get away, Sandi reached up with her other hand to lay the suction cups on her fingers across the girl's wide, frightened eyes. In seconds the flow would come forth and she would be beautiful again.

Maybe next month she would call Tiffany, she reflected. Tiffany didn't scream quite so fucking much.


	44. Not Alone

Written for the Scream Scenes thread.

* * *

><p><strong>(Not) Alone<strong>

"How is she?"

Jodie adjusted her glasses and glanced down at the digipad in her hand before answering. The glasses were really just an affectation, no more useful to her than looking down as she already had all the information on the pad memorized, but fiddling with them allowed her a few moments of tactful hesitation in moments such as this.

"Still no positive response, I'm afraid," she said, watching as the shoulders underneath her captain's jacket slumped. "Since her initial outburst upon retreival, she's remained silent and passive, only reacting to the outside world when someone approaches her. And then, she yells and screams incoherently until whoever it is leaves."

The captain was silent for several long moments as she stared out the window at the starry expanse beyond, her gloved hands twisting around each other behind her back.

"I want to see her," she finally said. Jodie was not surprised and answered quickly and decisively.

"That would be unwise, captain. Her reaction to other people thus far has been violent, to say the least. I could not permit you to enter a dangerous situation like that, no matter-"

"I want. To see her," the captain restated more forcefully.

A small frown creased Jodie's face. The captain was in one of her moods again, and there was little arguing with her under those circumstances. The particular situation they were all dealing with merely made it harder to try and contain her. With an irritated sigh, Jodie began to jot down a note on her pad.

"Very well," she said. "But I wish to point out that this is taking place under my most stringent of objections, and that I am making an official remark in the file to that effect."

The captain turned around for the first time since Jodie had entered her cabin. Her sharp blue eyes bored into other woman's. "Thank you, doctor," she said. "That will be all."

* * *

><p>The cell was small. It had the appearance of metal, rusted and green. No door could be seen, but she knew where it was. She had seen this cell and the other three like it from the outside on many occasions. It wasn't often that the ship had to lock anyone up, but sometimes they had used them for storage. She had never imagined that she herself would one day be part of the cargo.<p>

A giggle started to form in her throat, but she clamped down on it like a vise. There was nothing funny about her situation, nothing at all.

Space travel.

She had dreamed of it for so many years. She and the woman who would eventually become her captain. The _Montana_ wasn't a very large ship despite its very large name, but it was theirs. Well, theirs and the government's to some degree, but out in the cold, dark reaches between the planets, the control EarthGov was able to exert was generally barely felt. The _Montana_ received its orders and then executed them as its crew saw fit.

And then the chance for something greater came along, and she had taken it. The _Montana_ had come along three months later and pulled her from the wreckage.

Why. Why. Why why why why.

There was someone else in the cell with her. The almost imperceptible door had opened and let in the lone figure, and she prepared to scream and shout and threaten until whoever it was had left her alone, alone, blissfully alone. The words, harsh and bilious, died before they could be fully formed when she saw that it was her captain standing over her.

"_J- . . . Jane?_" she wheezed out, squinting hard at the lanky woman.

"Daria," Jane said in return as she knelt down next to her ragged friend. "Lookin' rough there, amiga."

"Jane . . . "

As Daria repeated the word, her face screwed up in agony and she began to retreat into herself, pulling all of her limbs close and ducking her chin into her chest.

"No," she whined as she curled her hands above her head. "No no no, you shouldn't be here . . . "

Jane shook her head. "Daria, I couldn't just let my first officer rot in the brig without at least coming to see you once," she said reproachfully, almost playfully. "We didn't save you just to lock you away."

"Shouldn't have saved me, should have stayed away . . . "

"What? No way, I-"

"_YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT ME THE FUCK ALONE!_" Daria screamed, suddenly turning on Jane with balled fists and a face that had taken on a mask of fury.

The captain backed away, her hands up and out in self-defense. "Whoa, hey!" she said as soothingly as she could. "Look, Daria, I know how much you liked doing the loner thing, but-"

"No no _NO!_" Daria stamped her foot with each shout. "You don't understand! It took me _months_ to kill them all! _Months!_ But I was finally alone! So many years, Jane! So many, all alone! But it was _worth_ it! Don't you see?"

"'Years'?" Jane echoed. She shook her head in disbelief. "Amiga, you were only outside the system for a few weeks at most! What the hell are you talking about?"

Daria's body sagged. She dropped her arms to her sides and looked down at the floor. "You don't get it," she said, her voice low and filled with sadness. "I was finally alone. But now that you're here . . . I'm not alone anymore."

Jane creased her brow in confusion until she noticed Daria's gaze lifting up to her, and then further up to the wall behind her. She felt it several seconds before she actually turned her head around to see it.

A shadow, tall and long and looking like liquid night as it spread across the wall's surface. It was joined by another, and yet another, each curling across the floor and walls like smoke. Small red dots began to glow from within the mass, staring at her like eyes. A soft whine of desperation filled the air, and Jane realized that it was coming from her at the same time she noticed that the shadows were too, flowing from the exact spot where her boots touched the floor.

The last thing she heard before the first slice ripped its way across her flesh was the sound of Daria's voice, coming to her as if from a great distance.

"_I'm __**never**__ alone . . . _"

**END**


	45. Simpsons Did It

Another mad little piece for the 1,001 Deaths of Tom Sloane.

* * *

><p>"Smithers, release the hounds."<p>

Tom scoffed at the old man and crossed his arms defiantly, but the smirk on his face receded when he noticed movement to the side. Standing there at the corner of the house were the hounds. One of them scuttled forward a few feet and then opened its strong jaws.

There were bees in its mouth.

And when it barked, it shot bees.

Tom's desperate scramble for the gate ended ten feet short.


	46. Endgame

Written for an Iron Chef about awkward and weird endings divorced from any context.

* * *

><p>With a grim downturn of her eyebrows, Daria watched the meter slowly bottom out. Things hadn't gone according to plan. They never did. But this wasn't an entirely unexpected ending to the game.<p>

She still had the head, which meant that she had won. The rules had never specified that it had to be biologically viable. As a characteristic sneer creeped along her face, she picked the case up by the handle and walked out into the night, the heavy steel of her boots clicking on the cobblestones.

The last psychic scream of Theodore DeWitt-Clinton silently faded behind her.

**END**


	47. Reboot

Written for the Scream Scenes thread.

* * *

><p>"I'm just saying that if O'Neill wants us to write an essay like this, he's going to have to start handing out material rewards," Jane said. "Hard cash would work at first, but eventually he'd have to move up to things like sports cars and beach front property if he wants to keep the barbarians from the gate."<p>

Daria shut the door of her locker and glanced over at her best friend. "I'm not sure he would be able to swing that much of the school budget. Li would rather use the money to install a portcullis and vats of boiling oil."

Jane chuckled as they stepped away from the lockers and started walking down the hall to their next class. It took Daria several seconds to realize that the chuckle had been in her mother's voice.

"Something wrong, amiga?" Jane asked when she noticed the other girl was staring oddly at her.

Instead of answering, Daria's eyes began to flicker back and forth. A sense of vertigo washed over, forcing her to stop walking and hold her stomach just to keep herself from throwing up in the middle of the school hallway. Every one of her senses was telling her that something was horribly, terribly wrong, but she couldn't focus on any single one to be sure exactly what that something was.

As she continued scanning around, trying desperately to find some anchor to hold on to, it slowly dawned on her that _everything_ was wrong. The identifying numbers on the lockers were spinning in her vision, changing rapidly from one set of triple digits to another. As she watched, the marker right behind Jane's head read 248, then 320, then 235 in quick succession.

Jane herself seemed to warp and shift, the contours of her head wandering slightly before settling back into their normal shape. The stockings covering her legs blinked in and out of existence, leaving her legs bare for several seconds before snapping back into place.

Music floated into Daria's ear, catchy and poppy, strangely dissonant from the current situation. The lanky looking kid that she'd mentally dubbed "Shaggy" for his resemblance to the cartoon character of the same name walked by, then walked by again from the other direction even as the first version was still in sight.

Daria wanted to scream, but all that came out was empty air. Her voice was not impeded by this, however, and she could hear herself talking, dialogue from a conversation she and Jane had had nearly two years before. Except it didn't seem like her voice at all. It was still dull and droning, but there seemed to be less of a monotone edge to it, a slight emotional effect that she couldn't remember being there before.

And then it was gone. Jane was there, looking like she always did except for the expression of concern as she tried to get Daria's attention. Daria gave it to her, then waved off the hand that Jane had placed on her shoulder.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she said. "Just a dizzy spell."

"You sure?" Jane asked, not sounding convinced at all.

"Yeah, sure. Let's just get to class before Mr. DeMartino decides to reenact the French Revolution with us as the unfavored aristocrats."

* * *

><p>"Okay, that's Thinker D334-A washed and back online! Mark it and let's get the heck outta here. I'm starvin'."<p>

"Hey, Tom . . . you ever think about what these things are actually thinkin' about?"

"Nope."

"Really? 'Cause I wonder about it sometimes. I mean, what do you think it's like for 'em when we clean 'em?"

"Jake, ol' buddy ol' pal, you think about some weird shit sometimes. They don't think anything when we clean 'em 'cause they're offline the whole time. Now c'mon, there's burgers with our names on 'em out there, and they sure as hell ain't gonna eat themselves!"

"Yeah . . . yeah. I guess you're right. Let's hit it."


	48. Hi, I'm Daria

Written for the Scream Scenes thread.

* * *

><p>"Don't get upset if it takes the other kids a little while to warm up to you!" Jake said as cheerfully as he could as Quinn stepped out of the car.<p>

The second she did so, she was immediately surrounded by several of the students that had been milling around in front of the school. Two brunettes - one with her hair in braids and the other striking some sort of fashion model pose - were at the forefront of the mob. They and the rest of the crowd were smiling broadly and fawning over Quinn like she was the star at a rock concert.

"I'll try to help her through this difficult period of adjustment," Daria said sardonically as she slipped out too.

"That's my girl!" Jake called out after her, then slowly rubbed his chin. "Wait a minute . . . "

Out of the stifling atmosphere of the car and into the smell of fresh cut grass around the school, Daria could finally hear exactly what everyone was saying to her precious little sister. She was prepared to simply walk on past without a second thought, but what little she managed to overhear caused her to stop and look back.

"HI, I'M STACY!" the girl with the braids belted out. "What's your name?"

"Quinn Morgendorffer," Quinn said brightly, obviously pleased at all the attention.

"HI, I'M SANDI!" the other brunette fairly bellowed. "That's a cool name. Very cool, very cool."

"HI, I'M JACK!" a boy shouted directly into Quinn's ear, causing her to jump in surprise. "You're cooooool. Wanna go out? We could go to Burger Burger. They've got great burgers there. Very nice, very nice, not too expensive!"

As one, the crowd pressed in around Quinn even more, causing the redhead to suddenly become uncomfortable with being the center of attention for what was probably the first time in her life. Seeing the suddenly panicked look on her sister's face, Daria quickly moved to push through the mass of students, grabbed, Quinn by the wrist, and extricated her before she was suffocated or torn to pieces.

The teenagers turned around, all smiles and grasping hands and names shouted at the tops of their lungs, and began to move in on the Morgendorffers, obviously desperate for some kind of contact. They were like zombies save for the lack of putrefaction and torn clothes. Daria and Quinn looked around for some kind of escape, but all the other students in the yard had begun to converge on them as well. The only passage of apparent safety led directly up the steps to the doors of the school, and lacking any other options, they took it.

The main hall on the other side was completely empty, for which Daria breathed a silent sigh of relief. She grabbed Quinn by the shoulders and pulled her along as they both ran as fast as they could from the mob still advancing on them. Fortunately for the sisters, the other students were caught in a small bottleneck at the doors, forcing them to slow down a bit, but as Daria looked back she could see that a few here and there were quickly regaining their stride and starting to bolt down the hall after them.

A strange feeling welled up inside Daria's chest, and it took her a few moments to realize that it was worry about Quinn. As unfamiliar as the sensation was, she decided to give into it and started looking her sister over as they ran.

"Quinn?" she said tentatively. "Quinn, are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

"No," Quinn replied, her voice shaky with fear. "I mean . . . I think . . . a cut or . . . I just don't . . . it . . . it feels like-"

Daria pushed Quinn's hair back from where the other girl was lightly holding her fingers against her neck. A thin rivulet of red blood stained the fingertips, leaking from a tiny laceration, likely caused by one of her attacker's fingernails or jewelry.

"It's just a scratch," Daria assured her.

Quinn shook her head vehemently. "No, no, it's . . . I think . . . "

The redhead suddenly came to a full stop. Daria would have kept running for several feet before noticing, but her hold on Quinn's shoulders pulled her up short. She quickly turned what would have been a short skid into a full about-face so that she was standing in front of Quinn and looking her in the eyes.

"Quinn . . . ?"

The younger girl's face broke into a wide, wild-eyed grin. She reached up to grip Daria's jacket in her balled fists and pull her in close.

"Hi," she whispered softly. "I'm Quinn. You're _cooooool_ . . . "


End file.
